


A Private Universe

by AuroraNova



Series: Private Universe [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-09 20:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: In his younger years, Garak dismissed the idea of private universes as fanciful and not worth his time. Now he finds himself sharing just such a dimension with a certain recklessly optimistic doctor, and if randomly disappearing from the known universe wasn't bad enough, legend claims this bond is permanent.Or, the multiverse is determined to vex Elim Garak endlessly.





	1. Malon Anbar

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle your seatbelts, because I'm going way off the beaten track with this one.

It never failed to astonish Garak how much trust Bashir placed in him.

If the doctor was indicative of his species as a whole - and Garak, having researched the matter, had no reason to suspect otherwise - human males were quite vulnerable immediately after sexual relations.

One would have thought such a liability would call for caution in selecting intimate partners. Certainly it would among Cardassians. Even Dukat, whose competence was questionable at best, was probably not stupid enough to ignore such a weakness. And yet, in three years on Deep Space Nine Garak had seen few examples of such prudence in humans. Truly, it gave credence to some of the cruder expressions which asserted that human men made decisions with their genital organs.

It really wasn’t the wisest choice, from a Federation standpoint, for Bashir to have involved himself sexually with a former Obsidian Order agent believed by half the station to still be working as a Cardassian spy. (How Garak wished those rumors were true.) Not least due to how easily incapacitated a human male would be immediately after orgasm, when he apparently had very little energy.

Why, when Bashir was lying boneless after expending himself on sex, Garak could’ve killed him in half a dozen ways which involved only a single hand. His options increased threefold if he allowed himself the use of both hands, not to speak of nearby objects.

Not that he _would_ end the doctor’s life, of course – whatever anyone else may have thought, Garak took no pleasure in killing and did so only when required for Cardassia or the continuation of his own existence – but he _could_ do so with what ought to have been, from Bashir’s perspective, alarming ease.

Still, the doctor wasn’t breaking any Federation rules of which Garak was aware (he had looked, naturally), and they enjoyed each other’s company in sexual matters as well as any other. Their encounters had been going on for the better part of a year now, simple expressions of physical pleasure. Or at least, they were simple until Garak made a startling and very unwelcome observation.

He had hoped Bashir, given over to lust as he was at the time, might not have noticed. Unfortunately, the doctor picked a poor day to put Garak’s lessons on observation into practice. “Was it just me, or did it seem for a minute like we were somewhere else?” he asked lazily.

Alarmed because he would have preferred to have imagined the whole thing, which in itself was a very poor alternative, Garak said, “You are prone to flights of fancy.”

“Consider it a compliment,” replied Bashir.

Garak did no such thing. He spent the next four days in a frenzy of research, which was difficult when trying to learn about a secretive topic long considered subversive by the state. Oh, it was fine enough for matters of whimsy, but reality? That was another matter altogether, and thus the phenomenon was not recorded openly. If he had access to classified material, or the Order’s databases, the task would have been much easier, and he cursed his younger self for having dismissed _malon anbar_ as fiction not worth reading about.

He finally located a brief mention in Vulcan scholarship. Iloja of Prim had shared the alleged existence of the phenomenon with an anthropologist, which was to Garak’s good fortune.

Nothing he learned was good. Oh, he supposed scientists would find it all fascinating and worth considerable study, but Garak was not concerned with such matters. He was focused on the phrases “permanent and irrevocable” and “until one of the partners dies.”

Just when he thought his situation could hardly get worse: exiled; Tain dead and no longer able to redeem him; no use to Cardassia at all other than relaying a message or two from Sisko, which anyone with half a brain could have done; wasting years of his prime on an overly bright, cold station among people who hated him – all that, and he’d been wrong. It was possible to complicate matters further still.

Permanently bonding himself to a Starfleet officer in an ill-understood matter which defied contemporary understanding of physics was no small inconvenience.

He didn’t want to arouse Bashir’s suspicions before he completed his research, so he agreed to their next rendezvous as usual. That proved to be a mistake.

He was enjoying the doctor’s oral ministrations as much as possible when distracted by the fear that they might move to the _malon anbar_. Which, because the multiverse was apparently determined to vex Elim Garak endlessly, did indeed make an appearance.

Bashir noticed two seconds later, and he abandoned his previous focus on Garak’s pleasure. “Garak, I don’t mean to alarm you, but we may have been kidnapped.”

Garak sighed. It still could have been worse, he supposed, but only if he’d been shortsighted enough not to apply himself to learning Federation Standard. They did not have their clothes, which meant no translators. Fortunately, he was an adept student of languages. “We haven’t been kidnapped.”

“Well, we’re not on the station.” The doctor looked around at the peaceful space, which appeared as though they were surrounded by twilight in a room roughly the size of standard quarters. “Unless you had us transported to a holosuite?” His tone suggested this would have been a better alternative than the unknown. Garak had to agree.

“I did not.”

“Some kind of hallucinogen?”

If only it were that simple. “I doubt it.”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

Garak did. He did not care to share it, but alternatives were rapidly dwindling. The last thing he needed was for Bashir to run straight to Sisko when they returned. The captain would have Dax investigate, she would dutifully file her reports, and within a matter of days all of Starfleet would have access to information on this personal matter. That was unacceptable.  

He engaged in the time-honored practice of stalling. “Does this place look familiar to you, Doctor?”

“Not particularly. We don’t have the UTs, do we? Your Standard is very good.”

Garak was content to let the man discuss linguistics for as long as he liked. “Thank you. I have made a study of it.”

“A successful one, I’d say. But we were trying to figure out where we are.”

He was. Garak already knew and was considering various scenarios to contain the damage their situation would undoubtedly cause.

“You know, there’s something about this place…” said Bashir.

“Oh?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but you may recall that last time I told you it seemed for a moment as though we were somewhere else. Now that I think about it, there’s a striking similarity.”

Curses, he was going to have to tell the truth. (By which he meant subjective truth, seeing as he was not, on the whole, a believer in the existence of objective truths.) Garak hated it when the truth was his only option.

Nevertheless, it was better to tell Bashir than have the matter turn into a Starfleet investigation. The organization might not abduct Garak and Bashir into custody for experimental purposes the way Central Command could be expected to (though Section 31 would no doubt like to, if they had even an inkling of the _malon anbar_ , and wasn’t that an unpleasant prospect), but all the same, Garak did not want to take his chances.

They returned to Bashir’s quarters, at which time Garak was no longer able to stall. Before the doctor could reach for his combadge, he said, “Please don’t contact Captain Sisko.”

Bashir frowned. “This is a serious matter, Garak. We need to know what happened… oh, of course, you already know and have decided to keep me in suspense.”

“I do not know,” said Garak, which was only half falsehood. “I suspect.”

“What, exactly, do you suspect?”

“A _malon anbar_.” As he spoke, Bashir’s quarters disappeared and they returned to the phenomenon in question. “A very poorly controlled one, at that.”

“You’ll have to translate,” said Bashir.

Garak did not allow himself to indulge in the hope that the doctor, if he was going to be tethered to Garak for life, might eventually learn a bit of Cardassi. He merely noted the thought and moved on.

“As precisely as I can translate,” he said, “a private universe.” He felt the translation was a bit lacking, as it failed to convey the sense of utmost privacy. Still, it would do.

“How literally am I supposed to take the phrase?” asked Bashir. Predicting Garak’s response, he added, “And don’t tell me as much as I like.”

“Quite literally. I must once again ask that you not to rushing to Sisko the moment we return.”

“I’ll have no choice if you don’t start answering my questions.”

It was a well-chosen remark, Garak had to admit. “ _Malon anbar_ are accepted only as myth on Cardassia, a cultural remnant of our more, shall we say, poetic-minded ancestors the Hebitians. You might consider it as an old fairy tale from Earth, like your fanciful giant beanstalk.”

“I hope there are no giants here looking to eat us.”

It was a peculiar response, very human in the way it referenced an aspect of their culture nobody with any sense would anticipate to be forthcoming in the present context. Humans were known to relate to the galaxy in this way, even if they themselves were unaware of the tendency.

“Of course not,” said Garak. “For one thing, Cardassian myths don’t contain giants. As I was saying, any hint of _malon anbar_ existing in actuality would be subversive.”

A realm beyond the reach of the state? Not permissible, and anyone who claimed to access such a place would find themselves subjected to experimentation. Once upon a time, as the human fairy tales liked to say, Garak might have been assisting in the experiments, or at least the abduction of subjects, so he was well aware just how dangerous their situation could become.

Bashir said, “You still haven’t told me what it is.”

“Yes, I have. A myth with more basis in fact than I had believed.” In the future, Garak would not make the mistake of dismissing legends so easily.

“That’s not really an explanation. Where are we?”

“I told you, Doctor. A private universe. As far as I have been able to discover – and I hope to find more information when we return and I hear back from an acquaintance – a _malon anbar_ is outside the known universe. It is a small pocket in the infinite multiverse which only you and I, together, are able to access.”

He very much hoped he did not live to regret sharing this information.

“Why?” asked Bashir, predictably and fairly. “Why us?”

Garak was even less inclined to discuss the reasoning. “I cannot say with any certainty.”

“You have a guess, at least, or a bit of legend.”

Thrice-damned voles, the truth again. “According to the Hebitian myths, a _malon anbar_ is created when two halves of a soul merge.” The words sounded ridiculous even as they came out of his mouth. “I have not yet reached a more satisfactory explanation.”

Naturally Bashir was intrigued. He did love a scientific puzzle, and he rarely restricted his boundless curiosity to the purely medical. “Some kind of biological link with the physics involved in travel to alternate universes?”

He missed the point, as Garak had known he would. “The scientific mystery can wait, Doctor. The practical considerations cannot.”

“You mean the way we keep jumping between universes?”

“Among other concerns.”

“Such as?”

“I’m sorry to say all my information points to permanence. Not that it’s comprehensive information, of course, but I still don’t find it encouraging.”

Bashir did not appear overly worried, exemplifying as he did human optimism. “Permanent to people who relied on poetry for explanations, perhaps. Meanwhile, what if I’m needed for an urgent medical matter?”

They once again found themselves in the doctor’s quarters. “The legends hold that _malon anbar_ are controllable, with practice. In theory, we should be able to teach ourselves to enter and leave it at will.”

“I’m glad to hear it, except I won’t know when I need to leave,” said Bashir. “Our clothes, and therefore my combadge, don’t come with us.”

Such technology was not yet invented when the Hebitian legends formed. Neither had Garak’s distant forefathers encountered humans yet, for that matter. Someone more devoted to scientific inquiry would no doubt wonder about the implications of a human experiencing a matter of Cardassian biophysics.

Well, there had been that interesting adventure suggesting humanoids all over the galaxy shared common ancestry. Garak had read Gul Ocett’s report on the matter, the one kept classified where it could do no damage. He supposed it explained a great many of the universe’s little mysteries. It did not explain his, at present.

He worked under the assumption that no Federation races experienced _malon anbar_. Most of them were free with such information; without doubt if this was a common occurrence among Federation races, the public access database would hold considerable records. Even Vulcans had grown less intensely private in the last century or two – an example, it was held in Cardassian circles, of the pervasive and dangerous human influence. No, this phenomenon was limited to Cardassians, though how frequently he could not say. How many people in the Union had _malon anbar_ which they kept secret for fear of being taken away from everything they held dear? Surely he could not be the only one.

He wasn’t fooling himself. These mental diversions were an attempt not to deal with the simple fact that Garak’s life would be easier if he killed Bashir. He had enemies already and wasn’t looking to add more if it could be avoided, not least any who might want to keep him in a lab and study him until he died prematurely from their efforts.

Tain would have already been planning an ‘accident,’ if not completed it by this time. Any of the Order’s more orthodox operatives would have as well. Garak had always carried a touch of the unorthodox, probably because he was too inquisitive for his own good.

And that, of course, had ended in ignominy and exile. Though Tain’s habit of killing any potential threat at the first opportunity had not been a great success either, in the end.

Meanwhile, Bashir mused, “We seem to be the link between universes. I wonder if there’s a way to hear what’s in our usual universe while we’re in the other.”

“Planning an experiment, Doctor?” It was preferable to informing Sisko, at any rate.

“Oh, I think this is going to call for more than one.”

Though, the more Garak thought about it, the more he conceded they might have to tell Sisko about the _malon anbar_ regardless. If anyone tried to contact Bashir and he did not answer, they would ask the computer where he was, at which point the computer would helpfully inform them that Dr. Bashir was not on the station, though his combadge was. This, in turn, would spark an investigation which would be a matter of Starfleet record, and likely Bajoran record as well.

No, that would not do. It would be much better to control the dispensing of information. Sisko could probably be convinced to keep the knowledge to himself, or share it only as necessary with discrete individuals.

Garak did not like the option – not least because he was not habitually inclined to bet his freedom on ‘probably’ -  but it was better than killing Bashir, which would be most distasteful. There was also the question of what, exactly, killing the man with whom he was linked would do to Garak, and he did not care to find out firsthand.

Tain would have called that a very poor justification for emotional attachment, and it may well have been. Or perhaps there was great value in the continued existence of a man whose company kept Garak sane.

“From an evolutionary perspective, it would make sense to be aware of what’s happening in the regular universe. Otherwise you’d be liable to pop back in at a dangerous moment. In fact, escaping danger could even be the main purpose of the ability.” As he spoke, Bashir was inputting commands on his computer.

Garak began to understand the human phrase which claimed to be able to see another person’s brain at work. He’d found it perplexing when he read it, but now the expression made a certain amount of sense. Bashir’s facial muscles did have a unique arrangement when he was deep in contemplation.

“You are presuming this is a trait evolution has selected.” Garak was no scientist, but he knew a baseless assumption when he saw one.

Bashir frowned. “Well, I suppose it could be something that’s been selected against, and is thus rare. That would explain the lack of information, which I’d attributed to your remark about _malon anbar_ being subversive. Why is that, by the way?”

“Why do you think, Doctor?”

“Because the Cardassian government hates anything it can’t control?”

“I would not have chosen those words.” On Cardassia they would, at the very least, result in the speaker being closely monitored by two different organizations. Three if the individual was of any influence or rank.

Bashir never understood that the state wasn’t malevolent. It was order, the bulwark against chaos which allowed civilization to flourish, and not the evil institution of repression humans insisted on believing it was. Garak decided against rehashing that particular debate.

“But I’m right,” said Bashir with no small satisfaction.

“In effect, not in motivation, you are essentially correct,” he admitted. “And thus, sensible people do not go around speaking of _malon anbar_ outside the mythological or whimsical, which leads us to our current problem of insufficient information.”

“We can gather more,” said Bashir, as though the proposition held no danger. They returned to the _malon anbar_ , and he appeared pleased. “There. I’ve set the computer to contact me every ninety seconds, so we should find out whether or not we can hear the combadge.”

Garak understood the doctor’s desire to hear when he was being contacted. Even by Cardassian standards, which were high indeed, Bashir was devoted to his duty. It was true that he took a more personal interest in patients than any Cardassian doctor of Garak’s acquaintance, but then Garak was not acquainted with civilian doctors, or a great many practitioners of medicine at all, so he had a very small sample against which to measure.

Besides, Bashir’s more involved approach had saved Garak’s life, and most days Garak appreciated that.

In any event, Bashir’s life, and therefore Garak’s, would be immeasurably easier if his combadge could be heard in the _malon anbar._

“If this universe-jumping can be controlled,” mused Bashir, “I can see why it would be a very powerful ability. Though the requirement for two individuals is curious… do you think it’s related to sexual involvement? If so, I suppose it could be a way for parents to protect their children. Or to see that individuals would survive to carry on the species.”

“The sexual component is mere speculation,” replied Garak, who was not terribly interested in the potential evolutionary advantages of _malon anbar_. The implications for his own life were far more pressing.

Very dimly, he heard the characteristic chirp of a Starfleet combadge, followed by. “Dr. Bashir, this is your requested notification.” The sound was slightly muffled, but comprehensible nonetheless. It might have been clearer for human hearing.

“Excellent,” proclaimed Bashir, and Garak was quite relieved himself. “Of course, there’s still the matter of being able to respond. I don’t suppose your information mentioned how anyone controls these private universes?”

“Regrettably, no.”

Bashir frowned again. “I have to tell Captain Sisko.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“If I’m here,” he waved one hand expansively, “in the middle of a medical emergency, the captain has a right to know why his CMO is missing.”

“A reasonable point,” said Garak, though it pained him to admit it. “However, you have doubtlessly failed to consider the ways in which disclosure puts us at risk.”

“Failing to attend medical emergencies puts the lives of my patients at risk.”

“And your career, I presume.” That much he felt confident was common among species.

“Well, yes. But that’s not what you meant.”

They once again returned to Bashir’s quarters. “This is a powerful ability,” said Garak. “Certain individuals and organizations would give much to access it.”

“So you think someone is going to spirit us away to figure it out?” asked the doctor, making his disbelief quite clear.

“It is a distinct possibility.”

“Garak, this isn’t Cardassia. Starfleet can’t order me to report for testing, and the Federation isn’t going to abduct us to some dungeon lab.”

Astounding. Every Cardassian knew of the Obsidian Order, but humans were not, as many in the Order thought likely, pretending to be ignorant of Section 31. After all, these agents reasoned, how could an entire species be so blind?

The answer, Garak had learned, was because they chose to be. Humans, more than most races, were exceptionally good at ignoring anything which did not conform to their preferred version of reality. And Starfleet attracted the most idealistic among them, from what Garak had seen thus far.

He was not inclined to discuss such things – no good could come of doing so – and therefore said only, “The human ability to cling to naiveite is truly remarkable, Doctor.”  

As always, Bashir was not interested in extracting wisdom from the remark. It was almost charming how morally upstanding he assumed the entire Federation was, or it would have been, if this optimism wasn’t dangerous to Garak. “So you’ve said.”

“And yet you repeatedly fail to take heed.”

“You are an unrepentant pessimist.”

“I am a realist. And I am not eager to be subject to experimentation from anyone, so I must insist you temper your heedless unwariness for once.”

“Heedless unwariness? Really? Just because I don’t think there’s an enemy lurking in every shadow doesn’t mean I lack an instinct for self-preservation.”

The remark played into Garak’s hand nicely. “Splendid. I am ready for a demonstration.”

Bashir glared at him. “We have to tell the captain. Now that I’ve an associate doctor, he could contact her if I’m unavailable, but he needs to know to do so.”

“Associate doctor? Why don’t you just call her a subordinate?” Starfleet had taken the sensible step of assigning another doctor to the station, but Bashir was oddly reluctant to make a show of his authority.

“Stop it. You’re trying to distract me and it’s not going to work. We are telling Captain Sisko.”

“I suppose it would be better than him launching an investigation,” said Garak, allowing a hint of resignation to enter his tone.

“Which you’d already decided, so don’t try to pretend I’m convincing you.”

“Why Doctor, you’re learning.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Which would you prefer?”

Bashir almost responded, then thought better of it. A pity. “Considering the politically delicate nature of our situation…”

“That’s one way to phrase it.”

“… I think Captain Sisko will agree to keep this confidential.”

“I do hope you’re right. Assassination by Bajoran extremists is no better than experimentation.”

“Though he’ll probably want to tell Odo.”

“That is acceptable,” said Garak. “The constable keeps his own counsel.”

“And maybe Jadzia.”

“That is _not_ acceptable.”

“Jadzia can keep a secret,” insisted Bashir. “Don’t you remember, not long after we arrived, she was willing to die to keep Curzon’s affair from coming to light?”

“That may be,” said Garak. It was not unreasonable to assume that if she was wholly incapable of discretion, Starfleet never would have promoted her to lieutenant commander. Even that organization had some standards. “All the same, her sudden interest would be difficult to explain.”

“You just don’t want her poking around our private universe.”

“I do not believe she would be able to enter it. That is the point of the _malon anbar_.”

“Fine. You don’t want her looking into it, even if she could help us, because God forbid someone get a hint of something they might perceive as a vulnerability.”

Well. That was more or less accurate, and judging by Bashir’s pleased expression, he knew it.

“I told you, Doctor, I do not want to be the subject of experiments. Even from your well-meaning friends.”

“So you intend for us to figure this out by ourselves?”

It was preferable to asking for assistance. “You are a scientist, and I am a keen observer.”

“I’m a doctor. My physics background is quite basic, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps you can discuss the idea with Commander Dax as theory. You could tell her you read it in one of our books. In fact, I believe _malon anbar_ are mentioned in _The Lights of Kantur._ ”

“That’s not a very good compromise.”

“I’ve already compromised twice,” said Garak, just in case the lie held.

“You did not. You’d already decided we should tell Captain Sisko in order to prevent a full Starfleet investigation.”

“I did agree to informing Odo. You cannot call that a failure to accommodate.”

“I suppose not,” said Bashir. “Fine. We don’t have to let Jadzia know, for the time being. I’m not ruling it out down the line.”

“And she will be the first person Captain Sisko wants to tell, won’t she?”

“She is the science officer. It’s not unreasonable.”

“The Hebitians learned to control _malon anbar_ without Starfleet science officers. We can do the same.”

“And how long did it take them?” asked Bashir, who was infuriatingly correct. “Patients rely on me, Garak. There’s more than your pride and paranoia at stake here.”

“I believe there is a human expression which states it is not paranoia if one truly has enemies seeking opportunities, and for once I agree with your philosophers.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You do have your diplomatically-referenced associate.”

“Who is young and inexperienced.”

“As you were, when you were named chief medical officer.”

“Only because we didn’t know about the wormhole, but that’s also not the point.”

“Let us try to master the _malon anbar_ on our own first.”

“Two weeks,” said Bashir. “Then we ask for help.”

Garak did not like this. He did not like it at all, and therefore he planned to devote his energy to finding every scrap of information about _malon anbar_ there was to be discovered.

First, of course, they had to tell Sisko, and he was not looking forward to that unfortunate necessity, either.


	2. Anbarad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who let me know you're enjoying this crazy idea of mine. I'm having a lot of fun with it. =)

At the end of Bashir’s explanation, Sisko frowned. “You’re telling me that the two of you randomly vanish from our universe?”

“The computer did say we were no longer on the station,” said Bashir.

Garak would have to fix that. It wouldn’t do to leave such an obvious trail of evidence for anyone to find if they cared to look, which he very much hoped to avoid by not arousing suspicion in the first place.

“And you go to… another universe?”

Bashir nodded, but was not content to leave Sisko with a flawed impression. “Another universe makes it sound more expansive than it really is, Captain. Thinking of a room is more accurate. Now, I can hear my combadge, but there’s no way for me to answer. Garak thinks we might be able to control the movement between dimensions, or at least Hebitian legends say it was possible.”

“Dare I ask if the legends have any clue as to why this is happening?” asked Sisko.

“They’re unhelpful on that point, I’m afraid,” Garak said, before Bashir could blurt out anything foolish.

In truth, the comments about two halves of a soul were quite useless. The Hebitians were accomplished artisans and poets. Science was not among their strengths; undoubtedly a better explanation could be found than this slavish romanticism. Garak was interested in that explanation insofar as it might help them control the _malon anbar_ , or better still, rid themselves of it altogether.

“Considering the unpleasant political implications,” said Bashir with commendable diplomacy, “we’re hoping to keep this quiet.”

Sisko’s eyes tightened, never a good sign. “I don’t like this, Doctor.”

He wasn’t the only one.

“I know it’s not ideal, sir, but there’s nothing to be done at the moment except learn how to control our travel to the other universe.”

“Or stop it altogether,” added Garak, as that was his preference.

To Sisko’s credit, if he had any idea that his chief medical officer was sexually involved with a disgraced Obsidian Order agent, he didn’t let on. The man could be very opaque when he chose, a trait Garak admired even as it made his own life more complicated.

“You make a good point about the possibility to complicate our lives even further, if word gets out,” said Sisko. “I suppose I can keep it off the record for the time being. However, if events force my hand, I won’t hesitate to make it official.”

“Understood,” said Bashir, and Garak supposed that was as much as they could reasonably hope for.

“I imagine you haven’t told anyone else?”

“No.”

“Dax might be able to help.”

“With all due respect, Captain, I’m not certain how.” Garak used his most nonthreatening voice.

“Let me guess: you don’t want her investigating.”

Ah, the captain was feeling blunt today. Garak maintained his congenial stance but adapted his words. “It is my preference. The phenomenon is considered subversive on Cardassia.” Or at least, that was the only explanation fitting all available facts, but he did not mention his highly educated guesswork.

Sisko was unmoved. Time to appeal to his protective instincts towards his underlings. “It is also an ability certain factions would be very interested in possessing, and would stop at very little to obtain.” Garak glanced briefly towards Bashir, just enough to hint that the good doctor might be in danger, which was truer than Garak would have preferred because he himself faced just as much threat. More, perhaps, without the protection of Starfleet, which was not completely without value.

“In that case, we need to know everything we can about it,” said Sisko, failing to grasp the value of discretion. “Start by setting up tricorders and showing Dax the readings. I’ll speak with her about leaving it off the record.”

“And telling nobody,” added Garak, because clearly he’d lost the battle to keep Dax ignorant altogether. This situation grew more dismal by the hour.

“Yes,” said Sisko, giving him a suspicious look before turning his attention to Bashir. “I’ll expect your full cooperation, Doctor.”

He didn’t bother telling Garak the same. Not a stupid man, Sisko, lack of caution notwithstanding.

“Of course, Captain,” said Bashir.

“Keep me informed,” he said, and then he left them alone in Bashir’s office.

“That went fairly well,” Bashir declared. “All things considered. Yes, I know, you don’t want to tell Jadzia, but it’s perfectly sensible.”

“To you, perhaps.”

Still, there was nothing to be done about it, so Garak did not interfere that evening when Bashir showed up to his quarters with three tricorders.

“Jadzia and I programmed them for different scans,” he said by way of explanation. “I can’t help but notice we stayed in in our universe today. I’m not sure what the variables are: the presence of others, the lack of sexual arousal which preceded our previous visits to the private universe, or any number of influences which haven’t yet occurred to me.”

“An ardent desire not to?” suggested Garak, not entirely facetiously, though the doctor likely perceived it as such.

Bashir shrugged. A strange gesture, and one in which Garak had never seen utility. “We can’t rule it out.”

“Very well. Which variable do you intend to test first?”

“Proximity of others,” said Bashir, “If that’s alright with you.”

“Let it never be said I impede scientific exploration.”

The doctor’s face showed his disagreement, but he set up the tricorders without further comment.

“I don’t suppose you’ve found any more information,” said Garak.

“I haven’t. Didn’t you already look in the Federation database?”

“The public access database, yes. I’d hoped you would have checked Starfleet Medical records.”

“Starfleet Medical has only the barest minimum of information on Cardassian biology,” reported Bashir, “and half of that comes from me.”

Garak was sorry to have been the cause, but the alternative was allowing himself to die, and he wasn’t about to give his enemies that satisfaction any time soon if it could be helped. He remained an exile, and it would take a great upheaval to change that. Still, it was not in his nature to give up. If nothing else, he was well-placed to make sure the Federation’s tendencies toward insufficient suspicion and precaution did not lead to a Dominion infiltration of the station. It would do Cardassia no good for the Dominion to control the wormhole, he was certain.

“Or your leaders have further classified any mention of _malon anbar_ ,” he suggested.

“We’re talking about the Federation, not Central Command’s medical division.”

“It would be uncommonly prudent of Starfleet, I admit.”

“And yet you asked anyway. Is that Cardassian-style optimism? We could be rubbing off on you, Garak.”

“Certainly not. I was merely exploring all possible avenues.” It would never do to be less than thorough.

“If you say so.”

Garak chose not to dignify the suggestion with a reply.

“In any event, all I’ve found is a reference from a hundred-and-sixty-year-old Vulcan anthropology journal.”

“The same article I discovered, no doubt, if it quoted from Iloja.”

“Yes,” said Bashir. “Vulcans being Vulcans, I imagine none of them saw a need for rushing to Cardassian to study an ability recorded only in myth.”

“They would not have found any cooperation. We possess very strong instincts for self-preservation, Doctor.”

“I’m aware. It’s just unfortunate that it leads to all this secrecy.”

“Secrecy is integral to self-preservation.”

Bashir raised his eyebrows. “If you didn’t have so many secrets, your enemies would have a lot less ammunition with which to work.”

“Oh yes, the Romulans are renowned for their admiration of transparency.”

The doctor did not give up so easily. It was admirable, if irritating on occasion. “Your internal enemies, at least,” he said.

“A secret is more than a liability, Doctor.”

“Let me guess: it’s also power.”

“That goes without saying. Or it should,” he said in a lightly chastising tone. “No, what I intended to remind you is that a secret becomes an essential part of one’s individuality.”

Bashir frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but before he could respond they moved to the _malon anbar_ and he abandoned what was almost certainly a sentimental counterargument. “I suppose we can rule out advanced stages of sexual arousal as a requirement,” he said.

“I doubt that proximity of others is the deciding factor,” added Garak. “It would not be a very helpful ability if _anbarad_ were unable to flee in the face of their enemies.”

“ _Anbarad_?”

“Those who share a universe. The singular is _anbaras_.”

“It’s a reasonable point,” said Bashir. “Unless, of course, the ultimate purpose of the private universe has nothing to do with escaping enemies and danger.”

Garak could think of no sensible alternative. “I would greatly prefer you refrain from assigning whimsical human aims to Cardassian biology.”

“I’m not assigning anything,” protested Bashir. “I’m merely pointing out that we lack sufficient information to be certain of anything and should therefore keep an open mind.”

“Do what you must. I will continue to believe the _malon anbar_ allows escape from enemies and other dangers.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” The doctor’s eyes widened, as they did when he’d come to a realization. “Wait a minute. This could be it.”

Garak hadn’t a clue what the doctor meant, which he disliked. “Could you specify?”

“This is us as we often are, comfortably debating. What if that’s the trigger?”

He considered. “If you’re correct, we had best stop lunching in the Replimat until we learn to control the _malon anbar._ ”

“You’re right,” said Bashir, and Garak wasn’t certain if the regret was over missing lunches or being forced to concede that Garak was correct.

“I enjoy hearing you say that, Doctor.”

“I’m sure you do. Now, this is just a theory, but either way, the question becomes how to control moving between universes.”

“That has always been the most pressing question, whether you realized it or not.”

“I’m quite aware, thank you.”

Perhaps he truly was, but it was difficult to be certain with humans. Their optimism – as defining a racial characteristic as Vulcan logic, Klingon honor, or Bajoran belief in their Prophets – had a way of blinding humans to the obvious.

“I’m surprised you didn’t stick around for the entire conversation with Jadzia,” said Bashir, in one of those baffling mental leaps he was prone to making.

“I leave the scientific inquiry to those so trained.”

“By which you mean you’d given up hope of keeping at least some secrets from her.”

That was true, of course, but Garak wasn’t about to say so. “Not all of us receive quarters as guests of the Bajoran government,” he said, which was also true. He was required to remit payment for his personal quarters and shop every nine weeks. If he wished to use the replicator in his quarters, those energy credits cost extra.

The Replimat, being a Federation installation, did not charge, and Garak had eaten many meals there in his first year, when business was slow and his finances tight. The Federation expected payment for so little, in point of fact, that they barely needed to offer a stipend to their personnel at all, a fact about which Quark would complain at length if given half an opportunity. He clung to the belief that if the Starfleet personnel had increased disposable income, they would gamble more. Garak was not convinced of this.

In any event, Garak did not enjoy the advantages of Starfleet affiliation or Bajoran citizenship, so it had seemed reasonable to return to the maternity uniforms Lieutenant McMasters would be picking up the following afternoon. She wouldn’t pay him; Garak would receive his compensation from Starfleet in due course.

Cardassians were required to pay for their own uniform alterations. Then again, the Cardassian military provided considerably more generous salaries. Bashir’s scientific enthusiasm for the _malon anbar_ was simply another in an endless line of vast gulfs between their species.

“Have you heard from your acquaintance?” asked the doctor.

“Not yet.” He did not expect to so soon. Mila did not have endless access to classified information, other than what she’d undoubtedly copied from Tain’s computers before the devices were seized by the remnants of the Order. She was, however, the only person with whom he could trust his request. Not that he had told her why he was asking, but she was clever and had to at least suspect. “Clandestine communication with Cardassia is not instant, Doctor.”

“Of course it has to be clandestine.”

“Naturally.”

“I wonder if visualization would help us control the movement between universes,” mused Bashir.

Garak was skeptical. To his considerable displeasure, he lacked any more viable alternatives unless the _malon anbar_ was controlled by will alone, which experience did not bear out thus far.

“It’s very popular for meditation and other mental disciplines. Vulcans…”

“…are touch telepaths, not travelers amongst the infinite multiverse, unless they are far more devoted to privacy than they’ve led us to believe.”

“Which would be saying something, considering that among Federation races...”

“They are the closest one finds to sensibly discrete.”

“That wasn’t how I was going to put it,” said the doctor.

“I’m aware.”

“In any event,” continued Bashir, “do you have a better idea?”

“I believe we should begin with focused, coordinated will.”

“How very Cardassian.”

“At least you’ve learned something from the great works of literature you’ve failed to appreciate.”

Bashir gave him an unamused glare. “Fine. We’ll try it your way first, but then we’re going to try visualization.”

As it happened, neither technique had any success in controlling the _malon anbar_ over the next week. Bashir collected data, or attempted to with marginal success, and spent a great deal of time poring over it with Dax. Garak managed to avoid inquisition by the Trill, though he wasn’t sure how long he could continue to do so.

He received Mila’s information while Bashir was in the Gamma Quadrant with O’Brien, an adventure from which they returned at odds. Garak took advantage of their cancelled darts game to familiarize the doctor with the new reports.

“If you’re worried about being taken for experiments, I probably don’t want to know how this was obtained,” said Bashir as he picked up the Cardassian-style tablet. Encrypted, of course, but Garak had run the text through the universal translator for the doctor’s convenience.

“My acquaintance is in no position to directly observe _anbarad_.”

Mila had, at least for longer than Garak’s lifetime, been more than a housekeeper, without question. Garak did not pretend to understand exactly what role she played in Tain’s life, and by extension the Order, but it was not mere domestic maintenance, nor a singularly sexual outlet.

Mila’s position gave her unique advantages. Few were wise enough to suspect her as more than Tain’s housekeeper, and in this way, she had amassed far more information than she ought to have been able if people were properly suspicious. Garak had used this disregard for the service classes to great effect on multiple occasions.

“I was talking about the origin,” said Bashir.

“Reading it will not alter any circumstances to which you could make moral objections.”

“I suppose not,” conceded the doctor, tone indicating he was still not pleased.

“It is not as comprehensive as might be hoped.”

Bashir read the first document rapidly. “This is one of those Hebitian legends you mentioned.”

“Yes, from the dying days of the Third Hebitian civilization. You can rest assured that nobody was harmed in the procurement of this tale. The original was written as our Cardassian ancestors were conquering the immediate provinces around Cardassia City.”

“That’s where your species name comes from?”

“Yes, but we’re straying from the point. You’ve read very quickly, Doctor. I do hope you’re not making the mistake of ‘scanning.’” It was a standard human response, he’d learned from the number of individuals who skimmed over his standard custom clothing contract, and not a very prudent one. Though he’d not heard of anyone being so foolish as to avoid reading any contract with a Ferengi in its entirety.

Bashir gave him a guilty look. “I’ll read again later.”

“And transfer this information to one of your Starfleet padds? I think not.”

“Paranoid much?”

After his second readthrough, the doctor concluded, “This is interesting, I suppose, but it doesn’t really tell us anything new, other than how various _malon anbar_ were reported to look.”

“On the contrary, it tells us that _malon anbar_ were used to escape Cardassian forces, but the _anbarad_ were eventually forced to return to our universe when overcome by thirst.”

“So there’s no water in a _malon anbar_. I’d already noticed that.”

“Which means the _anbarad_ were in complete control of which universe they resided in at any given moment.”

“I see it was always two _anbarad_ together,” said Bashir. “Perhaps that’s required?”

“Keep reading.”

For once the doctor followed good advice and turned his attention to a centuries-old military report. “Oh, this is important.”

“Indeed.” The document stated that when _anbarad_ disappeared while one was mortally wounded, neither were ever seen again. Conquering Cardassians had considered this agreeable, as it meant less troublesome resistance fighters among the Hebitians.

“I think we can safely assume traveling between universes requires both of us, then.”

“It would seem that way.” Garak, for one, did not wish to attempt otherwise.

“God, you’d die of thirst, trapped alone with the dead body of your lover. That’s a horrible way to go.”

Garak could think of worse, but he declined to say so.

“They could take others with them,” mused Bashir as he read. “Only relatives, it seems.”

“Who else would you save but family?”

Bashir gave a disapproving glare and went back to the tablet. “Everyone returns naked, just as we have. Interesting. This suggests inorganic material cannot transfer… I wonder if other living organisms such as plants and animals can travel to a _malon anbar._ ”

Garak hardly thought that was the most salient point of the text. “Note the phrasing. _Anbarad_ moved out and in of our universe at their will.”

“Yes, I see.”

He may have seen, but he did not understand. “At their will, Doctor.”

Bashir looked up. “I suspect we’ve encountered a failure of the universal translator to convey context.”

Obviously. Translations were rarely perfect, and Garak thought Starfleet entirely too reliant upon them. “The original phrase was _ket forunt edre_ , which is a rather archaic term for devoting oneself entirely to a task or goal.”

“So it couldn’t simply mean ‘I don’t know how they do it, but they obviously go when they want, so I’ll say they can do it at will,’ then?”

“Extremely doubtful.”

“That almost makes what we’ve been doing seem too easy.”

Garak looked at him incredulously.

“What? We’re just stumbling into a universe other people had to give it their all to find.”

“No, no,” he corrected, beginning to grow exasperated. If this was an attempt at flirting, the doctor had very poor timing, but Garak suspected it was simply the lackadaisical Federation mindset combined with Bashir’s natural stubbornness. “This clearly means it will require great effort on our part to master the _malon anbar_ , not that the ability will magically, what is your term, fall into our hands?”

“Laps,” said Bashir. “Fall into our laps. And you’re forgetting the variable here. All of these other _anbarad_ were Cardassian couples, and I’m not Cardassian.”

“Indeed.” As if he could have possibly forgotten. “A Cardassian would be taking this far more seriously.”

“I’m taking this plenty seriously.” Ah, the doctor was annoyed now. “Just because I’m not afraid someone is going to abduct us in the middle of the night doesn’t mean I’m blind to the situation.”

By and large, the middle of the night was a bad time for abductions. They were much easier to disguise in large flows of traffic, with only a few exceptions, but Garak wasn’t about to explore that tangent.

Bashir sternly informed him, “I am very concerned about the potential – the likelihood, in fact, the longer this goes on without us learning to master it – that I will not be available when I’m needed for a medical emergency, which is unacceptable to me. Nor do I relish the thought of this becoming an official Starfleet investigation, not least because I doubt Command would approve of my sex life, none of their business though it may be.”

“Cardassian officers’ sex lives are Central Command’s business,” said Garak.

“I’d expect nothing less, but my point was, I am perfectly cognizant of the potential for this _malon anbar_ to complicate our lives far more than it already has, I’ve found information of my own, and I would appreciate it if you would give me some credit.”

Garak had evidently hit upon a sensitive topic, and perhaps had not made allowances for Bashir’s concern to be hidden behind his cheerful personality. “My apologies, Doctor. I suppose we deal with challenges quite differently.”

“Quite,” said Bashir, somewhat mollified while still remaining on guard for further slights.

“Now, what is this information you found?” In deference to the doctor’s pique, Garak deemed it wise not to ask why he hadn’t mentioned it immediately.

“I searched Bajoran archives,” said Bashir. “They’ve been in contact with Cardassians for centuries, so it stands to reason that any mention of _malon anbar_ outside the Union would be on Bajor. The trick is finding any such mentions, of course.”

He didn’t have to say this was because the Occupation had left the main Bajoran archives in a very sorry state, though that was in great part their own fault for hiding orbs in their secret archival vaults. Cardassians were not wont to destroy records without reason. Finding these mysterious, powerful devices was a very good reason.

“I found nothing in my search of the public database,” said Garak.

“I didn’t stop there. The assistant chief librarian of Jalanda City’s archives was very helpful.”

Garak had not asked for any help from Bajor because he didn’t expect to receive any. He had no personal dislike for Bajorans, whatever they preferred to believe; they simply had a resource-rich planet which had been of great use to Cardassia. In point of fact, Garak had a certain professional respect for their resistance, which had thwarted all attempts at annihilation and had in the end made the planet more trouble than it was worth. (Though part of the blame had to be laid on the shoulders of incompetent military leaders.) Nevertheless, fifty years of occupation had earned his people hatred on Bajor and certainly ruled out the ability to request favors.

“Why Jalanda City?” he asked. The archives there were in marginally better shape than other provinces, but not particularly noteworthy.

“Because I helped stop the transmission of a nasty mutated Andorian flu there a few months ago.”

“Of course.”

Bashir handed over his padd. Evidently, he hadn’t only brought it thinking Garak would permit the transfer of his own files. “I’ve already had the computer translate.”

Garak was impressed to find a digital scan of a document produced over four hundred and thirty years ago. This was older information than he had yet managed to procure (excluding fables, but those were hardly reliable), though he had no doubt that there was plenty more on Cardassia if only he could access it. He began to read from the document, a collection of curious incidents inexplicable to Bajoran scientists of centuries past, if he wasn’t mistaken.

_Among Cardassians, some claim the ability to move into a parallel dimension._

The document was just old enough that publicly proclaiming to be an _anbaras_ was not self-condemnation, though even at that time it would still not have been a good idea.

_This ability is thought to be very rare, but statistics are unavailable, as the topic is at least partially off-limits._

_Lita Meyrul spoke with a woman who demonstrated this ability. The woman, who declined to provide her name, disappeared, along with her husband and young child, in front of Lita’s eyes. This enabled them to avoid being killed by a rockslide._

_“She said that she has learned to see the path between universes,” reported Lita. “When they vanished from my view, the three went to what Cardassians call a private universe. There are no machines of any kind involved, according to my source, and indeed there were none to be seen in our universe when I witnessed their disappearance.”_

“Learned to see the path between universes.” Garak considered the words. “I do wish this woman had been slightly less reticent.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh, it was undoubtedly wise, but my own life would be easier if she had shared a bit more with Lita. Nevertheless, you have done well to find this, Doctor.”

“Thank you. Did you see a similar account below?”

“Yes.” It provided no additional information, except that this time, the _anbarad_ were two women who used their _malon anbar_ to save four nephews from a fire.

While Bashir read a fable with no application to their predicament beyond featuring _anbarad_ , Garak thought over how applying one’s will might lead to revealing the path between universes. Certainly he was not lacking in willpower, and the same could be said of Bashir, for all the man’s human foibles. Will alone, however, was useless without other attributes, the specific of these varying with circumstances.

“The shimmering road to another world.”

“Yes, Doctor, I’m well aware of the overly florid prose employed in old tales.”

“No, Garak, that’s not my point. I’ve read this phrase recently. It was in one of Iloja’s poems, I believe.”

“He embraced historical styles during his Vulcan exile, or so I’ve heard.”

“As if you haven’t read every single poem.”

He had. There was no Literature Review Board on Deep Space Nine to ban Iloja’s post-exile works. It was truly a testament to Iloja’s popularity, and the Review Board’s pragmatism, that his earlier works hadn’t been banned as well, and truth be told, Garak preferred his volumes composed on Cardassia.

Most Cardassians didn’t know Iloja had composed anything in exile, seeing as they believed he had died. It was a convenient lie which saved the state a great deal of trouble.

“What if it was deliberate?”

“Please, Doctor, do not insult our great poet by implying he ever chose his words carelessly,” said Garak while weighing Bashir’s suggestion. The poem in question could have been an extended metaphor for _malon anbar_ , though Garak was embarrassed to admit (only to himself, of course) that the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

Bashir found the poem and read from his padd. “‘I reach for the shimmering road to another world, a place forbidden to me forevermore.’”

Garak’s neck ridges tensed in disapproval. The translation did Iloja a great disservice. “‘A place I am denied to my dying breath,’” he corrected. “Your Federation translators usually do better work. This is abysmal.”

“I’ll welcome your version. Maybe you can start a consulting practice.”

“The need is greater than I’d realized. Still, you’re correct that it would appear to be a coincidence that the same poet who discussed _malon anbar_ with a Vulcan anthropologist also echoed language used to describe them.”

“And you don’t trust coincidences. Then again, you don’t trust anything.”

“Which is why I’m still alive,” said Garak.

“The standard interpretation of this poem is that it speaks to Iloja’s longing for his homeworld.”

Garak was well aware. He’d found it too painfully relevant to his own life to fully enjoy. Had that blinded him to the connection Bashir had made? Inexcusable.

The doctor continued to share his theory, which Garak had already worked out from the first mention. “What if it’s about his longing for a _malon anbar_? Didn’t his wife divorce him when he was exiled? If either the distance made traveling to their universe impossible, which is likely, or she was unwilling because she hated him, either way Iloja would never see his _malon anbar_ or his wife again.”

“I take it you’ve been reading one of his biographies.”

“I got curious after Jadzia talked about Tobin meeting him. Tobin and Iloja bonded over their shared dislike for the desert climate, as it turns out.”

Understandable, seeing as Cardassia and Trill were both primarily jungle worlds and Vulcan was emphatically not.

“‘Can one man alone recreate his heart’s home? Never has the thing been done.’”

“I am tempted to send a strongly worded letter to whoever produced this atrocious translation.” He knew the Federation was capable of more accuracy, even with computer software, and this disaster was intolerable.

“She’s been dead for decades.”

“At least she won’t be inflicting further literary horrors on the quadrant.” Garak found the poem in its original Cardassi, because his recall was excellent but not entirely photo-perfect. “‘Is it possible for a single man to remake the world of his heart?’ The word _evkalel_ means a man without state or family,” he elaborated. A man cut off from any kind of home, rather like himself, which he did not care to explain. “‘Never has the feat been accomplished.’ The word choice implies this failure is not through lack of labor.”

“No mention of willpower?”

“That’s the next line.”

“Not in my translation.”

“Yes, but we’ve already established it is a very poor one. Here again we find _ket forunt edre._ ‘I have devoted myself wholly to the task, but cannot find my way alone. I am but one, adrift.’”

Garak gave himself credit for being stronger than Iloja in exile, or at least less inclined to displays of self-pity. It was most unbecoming of the poet.

“I’m beginning to wonder which he missed more, his wife or their universe,” said Bashir.

“I would venture to say, in this case, that the _malon anbar_ represents his marriage, and also that he took a certain perverse pleasure in writing about his relationship such that others would not understand his secret.”

“How is that perverse?”

“My dear doctor, you still have much to learn about Cardassians.”

“Yes. Starting with how to control moving in and out of your pockets in the multiverse.”

“That would be an excellent beginning.”


	3. Anbaras

“Miles asked if we broke up.”

As was his habit, Bashir took off his uniform jacket once inside Garak’s pleasantly warm quarters. (Humidity reduced for the doctor’s benefit, as Garak strived to be a good host, the same as the doctor increased the temperature in his quarters when Garak visited.) He did not seem as discomfited by the temperature as Garak would have expected for a human, though it was possible he merely hid it well to be polite, and Garak had no other human visitors to his quarters with which he could compare reactions to the Cardassian environment.

Bashir would soon have that peculiar reaction, a sheen of sweat, which seemed a terribly unpleasant mode of self-cooling. Of course, humans had no ridges which might swell and contract as needed to assist in temperature regulation, a much cleaner method.

The doctor and chief had reconciled their differences faster than expected. (Differences over exactly what, Garak did not know; the matter was classified and not worth the risks of hacking into the station’s computers, a task which had gotten much more difficult due to Commander Worf’s cybersecurity measures.) Humans, by and large, were a very forgiving species, or at least they were in the present. There was literary evidence to suggest this had not always been the case.

Garak said, “The chief has finally noticed what was plain to see.”

“He figured out months ago, actually, when the Cardassian scientists were here.”

“So he says.” Garak was not convinced.

“He just didn’t see any reason to talk about it before.”

“And now you had to dash his hopes that you’d seen reason and ended our dalliance.”

“Something like that,” said Bashir. “I did explain that we’re not serious, which is true insofar as he thinks of relationships, but doesn’t take into account the _malon anbar_.”

“I do hope you didn’t mention it to the chief.” O’Brien was, if not an avowed enemy exactly, neither to be trusted to any degree, and should not be given any information he might use against Garak.

Though, he had to consider the bonds of human friendship. O’Brien could be expected not to hurt Garak if it would directly and equally bring harm to Bashir. All the same, it was better not to give him the option.

“Not yet,” said the doctor. “It wasn’t a conversation to have while fixing his plasma burn.”

For all O’Brien was fond of denigrating Cardassian engineering, he received more plasma burns than any Cardassian mechanic of which Garak had heard. If Garak were more inclined to be fair, he would have attributed that to working with alien equipment.

“You mean while he was cursing Cardassian engineering.”

“That, too,” said Bashir.

“It is not a conversation to have with him at all.”

“Garak, that’s not how humans work. This impacts my life in significant ways, which means you don’t get to demand I keep it a secret forever.”

How presumptuous. “That is how Cardassians work. It is unforgivably rude to share someone’s secret without their knowledge.” He was certain the betrayal had been featured in enough literature for it to have been apparent, but then, humans were often willfully ignorant when it suited them.

“When I tell Miles, it won’t be without your knowledge.”

“It will be without my consent, which is nearly as bad,” protested Garak. He would have to devote some thought to appropriately restrained threats should O’Brien divulge the _malon anbar_ to others. Harsh enough to be effective, not so dire as to have the chief complain to Sisko or Odo.

“I’m hoping we can come to a compromise,” said Bashir.

“That’s your human optimism besting rationality again.”

Undaunted, the doctor went on. “Anyway, the whole conversation will be easier if we can master the movement between universes.”

“Everything will be easier.” When they were in close proximity and enjoying each other’s company, they continue to move into the _malon anbar_ and back. Garak wondered if any living _anbarad_ had ever been trapped and died, and he did not care to find out from firsthand experience if the thing was possible.

“Have you learned anything new from Iloja’s poems?”

While Bashir worked with Dax, Garak had assigned himself the task of reading through every word Iloja of Prim had ever published. Even two of his most famous poems, widely admired throughout the Union, contained cleverly disguised references to _malon anbar,_ or so Garak now believed. As yet, nothing was helpful in learning to see this mysterious path between universes, which may have been a metaphor in the first place.

“I have found his first hidden mention of _malon anbar_ , but nothing of value to our situation.” He had also entertained the possibility that part of Iloja’s allure lay in this clever subversion, if _anbarad_ were common enough after all.

“I can’t say Jadzia and I are having better luck.”

“Luck is hardly what you should strive for.” Garak did not ever expect to understand why humans were so fond of the concept.

“It’s an expression.”

He was well aware, though that did not change his mild disapproval. “One which encourages individuals to forsake personal responsibility.”

“Sometimes an expression is just an expression. Or would you prefer I say that we are doing our best but haven’t made a breakthrough?”

“I would,” he said, more to see if Bashir would oblige than strongly held feelings on the matter. He considered their fondness for luck one of the least troublesome human flaws.

“Fine. Jadzia wants to come watch us…”

“No,” said Garak. He had extremely strong feelings on _that_ matter.

“I figured you’d say so. She’d like me to point out that visual cues might spark an idea.”

It had a ring of desperation which suggested their answers were not going to come from the science officer. “I have permitted endless tricorder scans against my preferences. Commander Dax will have to content herself with that data.”

“You’re conveniently ignoring the fact that there’s next to no data to analyze. We do know it takes 347 milliseconds to leave our universe, if you’re curious.”

Garak was indeed choosing to overlook the dearth of useful information gleaned from tricorders. That was, quite simply, not his concern. “I was not curious. There is a limit to my willingness to accommodate, Doctor.”

“More like you know you can get away with putting your foot down here.”

Another peculiar idiom. Bipeds put both feet down thousands of times in a given day, and Garak did not understand how this was relevant to stating his boundaries. “Call it what you like. I will not permit observation, by Dax or anyone else.”

Bashir, to his credit, did not appear surprised. “If anyone asks, I tried to convince you.”

“If anyone asks, I will happily inform them you failed.”

“I have no doubt.”

* * *

Despite his concerns over the _malon anbar_ , Garak’s life was not without its little delights. Demonstrating an astonishing level of stupidity, Dukat had taken his half-Bajoran daughter back to Cardassia with him and was now reaping the predictable scorn. Quite aside from the general satisfaction this gave Garak, it also meant Dukat was not in a position to trouble him at the moment.

Bashir did not understand why Tora Ziyal was such a problem. “Is it because Dukat is married?”

“Not entirely, though admittedly it doesn’t help his case that he has failed to consider how this will hurt his family’s standing.” Garak had never thought Dukat very intelligent, but even he had underestimated the depths of the gul’s idiocy.

“He’s far from the only Cardassian to father a child with a Bajoran woman,” pointed out Bashir, and reasonably so.

“Which in itself indicates poor planning.” Really, he did not know what was so difficult about using contraceptives. Granted, if such things were perfect, he himself would not exist, and if Tain could allow the sentimentality of having a child, perhaps anyone could. “It is unwise to create familial ties to lesser races.” Before the doctor could protest, Garak held up his hand. “I am merely explaining the prevailing view on Cardassia.”

“And that’s why nobody claims paternity.”

It was a simplified version, but more or less sufficient. Garak nodded.

“Is this part of the reason you’re so concerned about the _malon anbar_? Because it ties you to a lesser race?”

A valid question, if not one Garak wished to answer. His concerns were his own business, and he had fulfilled his obligations to Bashir by clearly informing the man of the dangers he faced as a result of the _malon anbar_. “Doctor, my standing on Cardassia could hardly be lowered by any improvident affairs. It is quite different from Dukat’s situation.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

Garak was aware. He wondered if a discourse on his views would sufficiently distract Bashir, but decided the tactic wasn’t likely to work.

“Am I a lesser race, Garak?”

Oh dear. The doctor was quite set on the subject. How unfortunate. “Well, we haven’t conquered you, so you’re considerably ahead of the Bajorans.”

Unlike most of his people, Garak did not require xenophobia to justify acting in Cardassia’s best interest. He did not think there was any such thing as moral superiority, anyway; all races were animals who dressed in the garb of civilization when doing so suited their ends. There was only strength and triumph to differentiate the winners from the losers.

“So that’s what this is,” said Bashir. “You’re embarrassed to admit you share a private universe with a lowly human.”

It wasn’t the case, though he could see where human sentimentality might view it as such. “Now, Doctor, you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Am I really?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth would be nice,” said Bashir. “A pleasant change of pace, even.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“There is,” insisted the doctor. “There is, and you know it. If someone comes into your shop and orders a yellow shirt, you can’t give them a green one and claim that’s what they asked for.”

“Yellow doesn’t flatter every complexion.”

That, too, was a truth – subjective, of course, as all truths were – but Bashir did not appear to care. “Fine. You know what, I’ve just remembered there’s a submission deadline coming up and I need to finish my paper.”

It was a lie, of course. Garak was far too clever to say so and thus fall into the doctor’s clumsy trap. “Very well. We can resume our study of the _malon anbar_ tomorrow.”

Bashir nodded sharply and walked out the door faster than was his usual habit. Garak restored humidity in his quarters to the usual level and reflected that it had been improvident indeed to take up a sexual relationship with the man.

They did not speak again the next evening, nor the one after that, nor still the third following. Garak suspected Bashir was throwing himself into distracting Dax from her parting with Kahn (a very sensible one, and Garak commended Kahn’s pragmatism) as a way to avoid him.

He waited until the computer told him Bashir was alone in his quarters. Technically, Garak was not supposed to have access to that command, but it was a simple matter to grant himself permission, and if the Federation or the Bajorans were so concerned about it, they ought to have made it more of a challenge.

“Come in,” said Bashir, neglecting as usual to ascertain the identity of his visitor before allowing them access to his quarters. Humans – Federation races in general, in fact – were entirely too trusting. It boded ill for their interactions with the Dominion.

“Doctor, I do believe you’ve been avoiding me.”

“It’s one way to avoid a troublesome _malon anbar_.”

“If one is content to leave such things to chance.” Garak, of course, was not.

“Maybe we lesser species are.”

This had gotten ridiculous. “You are taking a general observation far too personally,” he said, well aware of this unfortunate human tendency. “We were speaking about Dukat’s daughter, not ourselves.”

“Garak, I don’t have anything to say to you right now.”

Well. That had never happened before.

“So unless you feel like being honest - about this specific question, mind you, not your entire life story - I’ll ask you to leave.”

Garak hadn’t felt like being honest since he was twelve years old. “Honesty is perilous, Doctor.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you really?” Somehow he doubted it.

Bashir’s laugh was uncommonly bitter. “Oh yes. I’d say you could trust me on that, but you obviously don’t.”

“I don’t trust anybody. It’s certainly not personal.”

“You say that, but you also claim the truth doesn’t exist, so how can I possibly believe you? I haven’t expected anything from you, Garak, but I somehow thought… well, it doesn’t matter.”

Didn’t it? Garak wasn’t so sure. “Thought what, Doctor?” If Bashir said he’d believed they were embarking on a grand human romance, he was going to despair.

“That we were equals, of a sort. As much as you’ll concede to anyone being an equal.”

The Federation and their preoccupation with equality. Garak didn’t know why they cared about it so much in the first place. There was always going to be a hierarchy of some kind in society, and to pretend otherwise was simply deluding oneself so as to ignore how lowly one’s place was. He didn’t think Bashir would appreciate hearing this, however, and the conversation was already contentious enough.

“Doctor,” he began, only to find they were once again in the _malon anbar_.

“Damn it. So much for my theory that stumbling in here depended on us getting along.”

“Was this all an experiment?” Garak asked.

“No.”

Their _malon anbar_ must have been too warm for Bashir’s physiology, but he didn’t sweat. Intrigued, Garak asked, “Aren’t you uncomfortably warm?”

“No. I’d have thought you would be cold.”

If Garak had entertained the hope that Bashir would allow himself to be distracted by the variable temperature of the _malon anbar_ (interestingly enough, another subjective truth), he was mistaken. The doctor looked at him and said, “I tried to research why Cardassians are so xenophobic. Turns out nobody is quite certain, and most people are content to accept that you are.”

“The reason is self-evident.”

“Oh really?”

“Quite.”

Upon their return to the normal universe, Garak quickly dressed. “I will abide by your request, Doctor,” he said, and left.

It was not ideal, but still preferable to the naked honesty Bashir demanded. The nerve of the man! Just because he was Garak’s _anbaras_ , he felt entitled to Garak’s personal truths? It was presumptuous in the extreme, and Garak was not about to indulge such an imposition.

He would happily, and even truthfully, explain that he personally felt no need to consider other species lesser simply by virtue of being alien, even if the majority of Cardassians did. Other races were very often lesser for various reasons, of course, but that was altogether different than some inherent value. The Bajorans were lesser because they had been a conquered people; now, having made themselves troublesome enough, they were not as low as they had been, but still were weak enough to require Federation protection, so he could not properly consider them equals. Klingons were a lesser species because they were, with few exceptions, unintelligent, short-sighted, and easily manipulated.

If pressed to name a species he considered equal to his own, under circumstances where he felt inclined to be truthful, Garak would have named Romulans.

As for humans, he was constantly revising his opinion. This was a race which had voluntarily signed away their rights to develop cloaking devices, a decision which spoke very poorly of them in centuries past, and their continued adherence was not helping matters. (Cardassian scientists, to their shame, hadn’t yet managed to produce cloaking devices, but at least they were continually attempting the feat.) Then again, humans were also the driving force behind the Federation and its relentless expansion across the Alpha Quadrant, which spoke to a certain strength. They were not to be underestimated, and Garak respected them because of that, even as he marveled at their accomplishments considering how very chaotic and individualistic their society was.

In any case, Garak did not think humans lesser by default as non-Cardassians. He could have told this to Bashir, but then the doctor would insist on probing for further information about Garak’s motivations for disliking the _malon anbar_ , and that was simply unacceptable. It was one of humanity’s failings that they very often believed themselves entitled to knowledge simply because it was knowledge they wished to possess.

Bashir was correct, also. If they studiously avoided each other, they did not find themselves removed to the _malon anbar_.

This was not what Garak would have preferred, but if they alternative was endless requests for his secrets, he would make do.


	4. Iloja

Garak began mentally composing a philosophical treatise on isolation, which he would of course never write because it revealed far too much about himself. The central thesis held that one could be alone in one’s natural environment without undue distress, and alone in an unfamiliar environment while serving some useful purpose with only minimal discomfort, but that in the absence of a greater goal, to be the only member of one’s species in a given place was quite torturous.

He further posited that a superficial resemblance to home – in his case, the familiar architecture of a formerly Cardassian military outpost – was, instead of comforting, a rather mocking reminder of what one had lost.

As the days passed interminably, he was forced to conclude that his interactions with Bashir were of greater importance than he’d allowed himself to believe. Still, he could not and would not seek out the doctor. It would indicate weakness, and worse, suggest he was willing to share his secrets.

Garak had very little else left in his life, besides his inner secrets and motives. He wasn’t about to give them away.

And so it was that he did not see his _anbaras_ for two weeks, as the Federation measured time, which was more than half a Cardassian _kanet_ , or moon-cycle. It was really very easy to avoid someone on Deep Space Nine, excepting perhaps Odo with his Changeling abilities, as Quark could attest.

For his part, when they shared a mealtime (inasmuch as one could say the constable had a mealtime), Odo wisely chose not to speak of Dr. Bashir at all. Instead, he contented himself to ask what he might expect from a Rigellian wedding party aboard the station.

Garak appreciated the company, but found Odo an exceptionally poor conversationalist.

The station was abuzz with news that the _Defiant_ had limped back to the station from a misadventure in the Gamma Quadrant. The ship was aptly named, Garak thought, considering how many times it had already defied destruction in its short tenure. In any case, this was an opportunity to remind himself that he had absolutely no personal connection to any crewmembers, so what did it matter to him if their ship was destroyed?

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Dax was a valued customer, and one who could be counted on to provide some small entertainment when she visited his shop. He’d miss her if she perished.

He’d been meaning for some time to read _Selected Essays from the Kir’Shara_ , and as he had no need or desire to devote his attention to human literature at present, he settled in for an evening of eminently logical text. Surak was, unsurprisingly, quite intelligent. He was not a gifted writer. Then again, the revered Vulcan conveyed his thoughts efficiently, and that was likely his only concern, whereas Garak personally thought style mattered.

All the same, the essays were a valuable insight into Vulcan culture. It was difficult to imagine the stoic race of the present as the savages of Surak’s time, which raised intriguing questions of how an entire species might change their very nature – arguable for the better, if Surak had been correct that his people would otherwise fight themselves into extinction.

When he wondered what Bashir might say about the topic, Garak repressed the thought as ruthlessly as any Vulcan might a tendril of fear, and went on with his reading.

An hour later when his door chimed, as it never did except when the doctor visited, he was not quite so successful in quashing his hope.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Bashir.”

The doctor’s voice was welcome indeed. Garak permitted the door to open, and the man walked in, looking ill at ease.

He kept his voice perfectly even and neutral. It wouldn’t do to let any of his foolish hope be seen. “Good evening, Doctor.”

“Hello, Garak.” After an awkward moment where it seemed neither of them knew what to say – or rather, Garak would have made some harmless remark, had he not known Bashir’s body language well enough to infer it wasn’t the best idea – the doctor announced, “Staring down imminent suffocation has a way of making one face regrets.”

“The theme of ruminating over one’s questionable choices in the face of death recurs in your literature. I’ll never understand it. We Cardassians do not dwell on what cannot be changed.”

Humans, to the best of his understanding, were prone to this kind of mental self-flagellation. Garak did not know how he ever could have survived his exile if such were the case for himself.

“Yes, well, I didn’t die, which means some things can be changed. And I hated the thought of dying with things between us as they are.”

Garak couldn’t say living with it was his first preference, either. He wasn’t about to change his central position on the issue in contention, but he would hear Bashir out. “Would you care to sit?”

This earned him a weak smile and an overheating Starfleet doctor rapidly sweating away his body’s water content on Garak’s couch. Garak adjusted the environmental settings accordingly and waited for Bashir to make the first gambit.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” said the doctor. “From my perspective, it’s more than reasonable to want a little reassurance that you don’t think I’m an inferior species. And you didn’t outright deny it, which suggests… well, I’m not certain, exactly, but I’m sure it’s significant somehow.”

“Please tell me this isn’t your ridiculous human notion of the subconscious slipping out of hiding.” Garak _always_ chose his words deliberately. If humans didn’t, that was their own (inadvisable) business, but he’d thank them not to project such carelessness onto him.

“I was thinking more along the lines of the consciously chosen words.”

That was acceptable. Good, even, that Bashir understood how many layers of meaning could be conveyed by well-chosen words. “Would you have believed an outright denial, Doctor?”

Bashir frowned. “Maybe not. Which is your own fault, you know.”

“Yes, yes, your unimaginative boy who cried wolf and his gruesome demise.” Not that Cardassians shied away from gruesome demises in their fiction, but for children? Such details were best reserved for adolescents and adults.

“I don’t know why you feel the need to lie so often, but it’s your choice. As with all choices, however, it comes with consequences.”

Garak peddled falsehoods mainly to keep in practice and occasionally for his own amusement. No agent could expect to succeed – or survive, for that matter – if not a good liar. How could one convincingly act out a cover persona if not by studying the art of dissembling? For this important professional reason, he had always prided himself on being a liar of rare caliber.

Bashir was correct about the consequences, however. It had not taken Garak so many years and earnest Federation self-righteousness to alert him to this reality. “I’m well aware.”

Evidently satisfied on that point – had he really thought Garak would attempt to argue it? – the doctor forged ahead. “I’ve given some thought to what you said about the reason for Cardassian xenophobia being self-evident. It’s because if you start from a basis of equality among species, that raises uncomfortable questions of morality which are neatly avoided by believing yourselves to be superior, isn’t it?”

Garak was honestly pleased with the correct analysis, if not the overlong time it had taken Bashir to reach it. “Very good, Doctor.”

“Which further suggests that, if you see the situation as such, you don’t necessarily hold the same views.”

“I don’t need justifications to act in Cardassia’s best interest, Doctor. We are all but animals cloaking ourselves in civilization, are we not? The galaxy has limited resources. The strong take from the weak. Some imagined value inherent in each race has nothing to do with it in the least, and frankly I don’t understand why some of you insist on this idea. For the wolf to live, a sheep must die. It’s really quite simple, and I would further observe that if a wolf began to fret over the morality of killing sheep, it would in short order starve to death.”

“Cardassians are wolves.”

“Better than being sheep, wouldn’t you say?”

Bashir did not, but then Garak had not expected him to. Instead he asked, “What animal represents humans in this metaphor?”

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t made a study of Earth’s diverse ecosystems and was therefore only passingly familiar with Terran wildlife. “What animal shares an environment with wolves and co-exists with the occasional minor confrontation until resources are lean, when it is in direct competition with wolves? Oh, I suppose it should be something viewed as less dangerous among humans, yet fully capable of the same brutality. Perhaps an omnivore.”

“Bears,” said Bashir, looking rather amused by Garak’s criteria.

“Very well. Humans are bears. You must remember, however, that the metaphor doesn’t extend to some fixed value or characteristics. It’s all about the choices a species makes for itself.” It wouldn’t do for his message to be lost among zoological considerations.

“So you truly don’t think I’m an inferior species.” The doctor didn’t even attempt to hide his relief. At least, Garak hoped that was the case, because if Bashir had intended to, the result left much to be desired.

“Not as such.” That was at least ninety percent true, but it was completely true in the sense that Bashir meant, which was to say, lesser simply by virtue of being alien. “I think humanity is rather naïve by choice, if you must know.”

“I see. Not inferior simply because we aren’t Cardassian, but let me guess, you measure strength.”

“Is there any other way to gauge such matters?” There were, of course, but the question suited.

“I can think of a dozen.”

“I’m sure you can, Doctor. If it makes you feel better, humans fare quite well in relative strength.” They’d led the Federation to take over large swaths of the Alpha Quadrant and a bit of the Beta Quadrant, after all, and their colonies proliferated further still. One couldn’t argue with their sheer expansion.

“You could have explained this before,” said Bashir.

“Humans have a well-known tendency to believe they are owed all the facts of a matter when they please.”

“That’s similar to what Jen’Ron said to his children in _Rally Under the Constant Moon_.”

One would think a man who remembered a line of such minor importance would be better at figuring out enigma tales.

“Really, Garak? That’s what this was about? You’re so afraid of me prying into your precious secrets that you’d rather walk away?”

Perhaps. Or it could have been that he wasn’t convinced Bashir would remain interested in him without the allure of his secrets. Garak’s truth was probably somewhere in the middle. In either case, the doctor had grown very perceptive.

“Have you heard of Nanta Kurdav?” he asked.

Bashir was pleased with himself. “Changing the subject? I must be on to something.”

He wasn’t wrong. Garak said, “I will presume that means you are unfamiliar with Kurdav.”

“I’m sure you’re going to correct that problem.”

Garak didn’t bring up Kurdav lightly. Reading the philosopher’s most famous essay would provide a great deal of insight into Garak’s own worldview, and such a thing could only be done when strictly required.

Unfortunately, the demands of being _anbarad_ , combined with certain human needs for understanding and comradery, forced Garak’s hand. He found the essay, translated it using a Cardassian program (he was unwilling to risk the Federation translation software for an essay of such gravity), and provided it to Bashir.

“Do not ‘skim,’ Doctor. It’s a bad habit, anyway.”

“Very well. Who’s this Kurdav?”

Kurdav was the author of “The Relativity of Truth,” a piece of writing as accurate now as it had been five hundred years ago when he composed it. He elegantly laid out why there was quite simply no such thing as grand, universal truth. The only truths one could speak of with accuracy were personal and subjective. Using the sense of taste as an example was quite inspired.

While Bashir read, Garak reflected that the _malon anbar_ had demanded he share his truths entirely too often of late. Still, this concession, as an explanation of Garak’s personal philosophy, was what humans so quaintly called a peace offering. It was not the entirety of his secrets, which was out of the question. It was not the larger secret, namely, that Garak was not ashamed because his _anbaras_ was a human.

He was ashamed that he had one at all.

Oh, he had legitimate fears for his safety because of the _malon anbar_. Such concerns were not new; Garak had been dealing with fears for his safety all of his adolescent and adult life and, indeed, the latter portion of his childhood. Worrying over threats kept him from complacency, and there was much to be said in favor of that.

But to become this man who loathed to torture Odo, and now who had a connection understood only in the absurdly romantic terms of Hebitians as the other half of his soul? Garak clung to the hope that a more reasonable explanation could be found while gravely concerned that it never would be.

His life had always held purpose and definition, from which followed his very self. Even if by some chance he could return to Cardassia and resume his old life with the tattered remnants of the Order, Garak was not the same man he had been, and in point of fact, he no longer knew who he was.

It was that loss of himself which terrified him, not Julian Bashir’s species. He would have preferred death than admitting this – he was not so completely estranged from the man he used to be as to think otherwise – but this new Elim Garak very much wanted Bashir’s company, so he allowed the man to understand some small part of him.

And the doctor, to his credit, appeared to grasp the significance of the Kurdav essay. When he finished, he gave a soft, pleased smile before returning the tablet. “Your philosophical ancestor, Garak?”

‘Philosophical ancestor’ was another poor translation from Cardassi, if not as bad as the indignities some of Iloja’s poems had suffered. That was not Bashir’s fault, and his application of the concept was, unlike certain Federation linguistic programs, quite accurate, so Garak simply nodded his head slightly.

“Thank you,” said the doctor. “While I can’t say I agree with Kurdav completely, he’s not entirely wrong either.”

Garak thought Kurdav was entirely correct. Facts were rarely incontrovertible, and very many people were in the habit of presuming opinions to be facts. Even the laws of physics were constantly under reassessment.

“Truth is in the eye of the beholder,” he said. “In your earlier example, if my customer ordered a yellow shirt, and I produced just such a garment, then our subjective truths would be in agreement.”

“Which isn’t always the case.”

“Certainly not.”

“There have been explorations of human psychology discussing this,” said Bashir.

“And yet not widely embraced, I take it.” That would be very like humans, to have such a vital piece of understanding and fail to act on it because it inconvenienced them. Few Cardassians were as devoted to the idea as Garak, but most acknowledged it to some degree.

“People don’t always embrace endless shades of grey.”

“Doctor, if this is about Cardassian skin tones…” He knew it wasn’t, of course, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

Bashir flushed at the mere suggestion of specism and hastened to reassure. “It isn’t. Shades of grey is a common term for ambiguity, standing opposed to the stark delineation of black or white.”

“I see,” said Garak, who’d already known the meaning of the expression. “Now you can understand when I say that I truthfully do not think you a member of an inferior species. I do, however, think our situation puts both of us at risk, and I wasn’t looking for new enemies.”

He would offer that much to Bashir, but no more. If it wasn’t sufficient to satisfy, then he would just have to do without the doctor’s company.

To his gratification, Bashir appeared mollified. “I can’t say I wanted new enemies, either, so here’s hoping they don’t materialize.”

“One will always have enemies, unless living a life so utterly wasted as to be beneath all notice, which is hardly preferable.”

“I think the Dominion, and now the Klingons, are more than enough,” said Bashir.

It was a very short list by Cardassian standards. Admittedly, doctors were not a group known for amassing great numbers of foes, but not even a single disgruntled former colleague, or a patient bitter over imperfect surgical results? How disappointingly dull.

“With the war, and the upheaval on Cardassia right now, would our _malon anbar_ really be anyone’s priority?”

Garak stated what ought to have been obvious. “A war is the perfect time to find a new tactical advantage.” Not that there was such a thing as a bad time, of course.

“In any case, we should get back to work on controlling which universe we inhabit.” The yawn which followed suggested that course of action wouldn’t commence immediately. “Are you free tomorrow evening?”

He was free most evenings. “Yes. Shall I arrive at your quarters at the usual time?”

“Yes.” Another yawn. The misadventure in the Gamma Quadrant had obviously taxed Bashir. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

In the wake of Bashir’s departure, Garak abandoned Surak’s writing and resumed his search for answers in Iloja’s poems.

* * *

 

It was distracting to have a sexual encounter in two different realms of the multiverse, but not altogether impossible, thanks in no small part to a very determined human partner.

“Life’s difficulties seem more manageable after sex,” said Bashir, lying on his back in the _malon anbar_.

“Are humans truly so easily influenced?”

“Yes, we are. Or at least many of us are. It’s not true for everyone, but don’t expect me to believe Cardassians don’t enjoy beneficial endorphins.”

They did, of course. While Garak was not inclined to let such a matter override his common sense, neither had he ever aspired to ascetism. Pleasure, sexual or otherwise, was worthwhile so long as the risks were acceptable.

He hadn’t factored a _malon anbar_ into his risk assessment when he began a physical relationship with Bashir, but there was nothing to be done about the oversight now.

“Jadzia’s set up a computer program to search every Cardassian physics paper she can get her hands on for clues about this place.”

Garak doubted this was a worthwhile effort. “Did you explain to her that Cardassian physicists are not foolish enough to put the information out so plainly, least of all in any material available for the Federation?”

“I did,” said Bashir. “Did you know there’s an obscure library on Cattus IV which has papers from one of Iloja’s fellow exiles?”

“I did not.”

Cattus IV was not a Federation world, though it maintained cordial diplomatic ties. The Cattusians weren’t particularly interested in membership, and the Federation deemed people who maintained a strict caste system unworthy of their own morally superior ranks.

“She was a physicist, Anhali of Trop. Jadzia is waiting to receive the digital library file.”

“And how did she know of Anhali?” You could never be certain with joined Trill. A previous Dax had met Iloja, so for all Garak knew, Commander Dax remembered an offhand comment made lifetimes before. He didn’t know how exact a symbiont’s memory was for such things.

“After I told her about the hidden references in Iloja’s poems, she looked for any rogue Cardassian physicists.”

Nothing to do with a previous life, then, just simple ingenuity which Garak wished he’d thought of himself. How inexcusably negligent.

While he castigated himself over his continued decline, Bashir returned to his usual reckless optimism. “I’m sure we’ll find the answer soon.”

“I don’t suppose you have any factual basis for this certainty.” Such was not, from Garak’s observations, required among humans. “You do realize that any sensible Cardassian would understand exile is not license to spill secrets of our people.”

“Who says all exiles are sensible?” asked Bashir, and while Garak had a personal objection to such shameless betrayal of Cardassia as the doctor suggested, it wasn’t an unreasonable point.

“Your ancestors mastered the _malon anbar_. We can as well.”

He suspected this was Starfleet’s trust in progress again, thinking that surely, if unsophisticated Hebitians could control the multiverse, the Federation, with its vast scientific knowledge, impressive computational power, and stunning technology, could do the same. It seemed rather self-important to Garak’s mind. Something would always be lost to the march of progress: a species whose habitat was destroyed, an art form, a bit of knowledge. Often the trade was worthwhile, but to presume this was always the case was rash and quintessentially Starfleet.

“I hope so, Doctor,” he said. “But then I place very little faith in mere hope.”

“Yes, I know. It’s for the passive who aren’t willing to take action in pursuit of their goals.”

“Precisely.”

Bashir was not so easily swayed, and would have dropped in Garak’s esteem if he had been. “It _is_ possible to hope and strive simultaneously.”

“That may be, but I simply don’t see the point. Your wishes won’t change a thing.”

This being the case, Garak spent his evenings in careful study of Iloja’s poetry. He compiled every poem and line which could have been a reference to _malon anbar_ , but something was missing. Aside from the obvious, which was to say instructions on mastering travel amongst the multiverse, he still lacked a crucial insight as to the great poet’s intention in hiding all of these oblique mentions.

It was a fascinating puzzle, if frustrating in that his life could depend upon its timely solution.

“What if Iloja didn’t have an overarching purpose in dropping hints about _malon anbar_?” asked Bashir three nights later, when he reviewed Garak’s list of poetry fragments.

“He was a Cardassian, and a clever one at that.”

“Yes, I’m sure he was,” said Bashir in a tone slightly too acquiescent for complete sincerity, “but have you considered that the thrill of his subversive comments was reason enough?”

“I have, and I will grant that is likely for his earlier poems. There’s something more in the works he composed on Vulcan, the last volume in particular.”

“Now who’s the optimist?”

“Really, Doctor, you don’t need to resort to insults.”

“Insults?”

“I see you haven’t made it to the scene in _The Shores of Kandalo_ where Navina says, ‘Optimism is for children and fools, so tell me, cousin, which you believe me to be.’ It’s quite a famous line.”

“I was busy with delicate surgeries the last few days,” said Bashir. “My free time has been severely curtailed.”

“Ah, yes, salvaging what lives and health you can from the aftermath of battle.”

The Klingons were providing more business for doctors these days. Well, probably not for Klingon doctors, considering the dim view they took of medicine, and with that attitude it was a marvel that they hadn’t all died of infections in the earlier days of their history. Evolution had provided Klingons with immune systems to envy and redundant organs, and without those traits making them so difficult to kill, they would have exterminated themselves long ago. Garak couldn’t say it would have been a great loss for the galaxy.

“Duty must always take precedence over pleasure reading. We can agree on that much, at least,” he told Bashir.

“Yes, we can.”

“Dax to Bashir.”

The doctor hit his combadge. “Bashir.”

“You’re going to want to see this,” said Dax, sounding quite excited. “Are you free right now?”

“I’m in my quarters. Would you like to come here?”

“I’ll be right there. Dax out.”

“Do you think this is in reference to the _malon anbar_?” asked Garak.

“Probably. It’s not like Jadzia to be so secretive.”

Yes, and didn’t Garak have his concerns over that.

Dax arrived carrying a padd and not at all surprised to see Garak on the couch. “Excellent, you’re both here. I think I’ve found something, but it’s a photo of Anhali’s journal and I’m not sure how accurate the Cardassi-Cattusian-Standard translation is. Cattusian and Cardassi are both notoriously difficult to get right with a computer program.”

Garak hadn’t known this Federation perspective, and found it gratifying.

Dax handed him the padd while telling Bashir, “There’s something about searching for a path between the universes.”

“Between aspects of the multiverse,” corrected Garak. “The translation leaves something to be desired, it would seem. You speak of distinct universes as though they are two completely separate entities, where this language implies they are related facets of a greater whole.”

Unless Garak was sorely mistaken, and he doubted it, Dax didn’t appreciate the subtle difference in how that would affect moving between dimensions. This wasn’t a mere linguistic quibble, at least not to the Cardassian mind.

“Which would theoretically make travel easier, I suppose,” said the doctor, and Garak was pleased to see he understood that much, “although I’m not quite sure how that helps us.”

“Suppose you’re on an island without food, and you lack any kind of transportation.”

“I can swim.”

Dax grinned at the doctor’s remark. “How far?”

“For the sake of argument, not as far as would be required,” said Garak. “Now, there is another island beyond your ability to reach. Suppose there was a small island chain between the two.”

To his credit, Bashir immediately grasped the message. “I see. The island chain is the difference between two separate universes and aspects of a greater multiverse.”

“Just so, Doctor.”

Dax tilted her head slightly in thought but said nothing. Evidently none of her past lives had been passionate about linguistics.

“A journal of this importance never should’ve existed in the first place, and if it did, her family ought to have burned it on her death.” There was a reason Cardassian children were trained for excellent memories. It wouldn’t do to leave dangerous words lying about where enemies might find them.

“She had no family on Cattus,” said Dax.

“All the more reason never to have written it.”

“This was written in the last few months of her life, when Anhali reportedly suffered a loss of mental acuity.” Dax’s voice was soft with sympathy.

Ah. Cardassians were not so prone to mental decline as some species (Garak suspected this might explain why other races failed to appreciate their elders, but he couldn’t be certain), yet it happened on rare occasions. That would explain the journal’s existence.

“I don’t think we should quibble over whether it ought to exist, if it’s going to help us,” said Bashir, to no one’s surprise.

“I’m sorry to crush your optimism, Doctor…”

“No, you’re not.”

“…but there are no explicit instructions. In fact, I don’t think Anhali was coherent while writing this passage.”

“It’s from the end of the journal,” said Dax. 

Garak rechecked the Federation notation on her padd. “It’s only two-thirds of the way through the archive file.”

“Cattusians always leave blank space at the end of their documents. They think flipping through it gives the mind time to process what’s been learned.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” said Bashir.

A properly trained mind would not need… Garak’s own mind suddenly understood the significance of Dax’s casual explanation, and he began to mentally review certain oddly-worded lines of the poetry he’d committed to memory. Yes, he was on the correct path now. A quick bit of research would give him the exact structure.

He typed into the padd. “Commander, you have just provided me with the insight I had overlooked. I am in your debt.”

Dax lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “I’m not sure what I did, but you’re welcome.”

“Any time you’d like to share with the class, Garak,” said Bashir.

“Have we become a formal educational program? I’m not certain I meet the Federation’s requirements for licensing.”

Iloja wouldn’t have been so obvious as to use a typical code structure. No, it would be something far more obscure, possibly historical at the time of use. Subversive layered on subversive. Garak had not given Iloja’s works written in exile nearly enough credit.

“Garak?” asked Dax.

“Don’t bother,” replied Bashir. “He’ll explain when he’s good and ready, and not a moment before.”

“I’m glad you’ve been paying attention, Doctor.” He found the original Vulcan translation of Iloja’s last volume and sat down at Bashir’s computer to work.

“Though he usually gives cryptic clues,” added Bashir.

“I’ve told you many times, if you want to understand any group, you must read its literature.”

“Like that,” Bashir told an amused Dax.

It was the work of a moment to set up a simple cross-reference program. The first three structures Garak came across were incomprehensible when the Vulcan characters were translated back to Cardassi. He had no doubt he was correct in his general conclusion, but it required finding precisely the order Iloja had followed.

He let Bashir and Dax discuss a theory of the multiverse in hushed tones while he worked. The science officer was particularly intrigued by the idea of infinite _malon anbar_ which were entirely beyond her reach. She also wondered if particular _malon anbar_ could be recycled through the generations, a topic with which Garak didn’t concern himself at all.

“Making progress, Garak?” asked Bashir.

“It’s a simple process of elimination.” As he answered, he ruled out another possibility. “Quite clever of Iloja… oh, how unfortunate,” he finished, as they once again found themselves in the _malon anbar_. “I hope Commander Dax has the courtesy to leave.”

“And miss seeing us return? She’s a scientist with a puzzle, so I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Humans and Trill are not known for their modesty. Cardassians are.” It was doubly bad that the person about to see Garak naked was, at least in part, exceptionally long-lived. The indignity smarted.

“Really? I thought you were just cold all the time in our climate.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“In any case, there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“It’s very rude of her,” protested Garak.

“Well, she might take Cardassian sensibilities into account, but there’s nothing we can do.”

It was just as well Tain hadn’t survived to see how far Garak had fallen.

“Anhali’s journal used Cattusian custom,” said Bashir. “You think Iloja was using a Vulcan custom.”

“Just so.” At least, if he had to have an _anbaras_ , the man was an intelligent one. Garak had in the past shared his bed with others who were far less agreeable outside of it.

“But you’re not going to tell me any more until you can triumphantly present us with the final project.”

“That is correct.”

Bashir accepted this and changed the subject, evidently not feeling flirtatious at the moment. “It’s peaceful here.”

“Yes, if one doesn’t consider the inherent threat posed by our visits to this dimension.”

“I wouldn’t mind coming back once we can control our movement. As long as I could return to the station if someone needed me, it would be a nice change of scenery.”

Garak wouldn’t either, if for no other reason than the delightfully warm temperature which, knowing the doctor, was part of Bashir’s consideration. “I could be persuaded, if we take appropriate precautions.”

“So it doesn’t have to be the end of the world?”

“I’m far more concerned with the end of my life. And yours,” he added in a tone suggesting afterthought.

“You know it’s a common phrase, but I’m touched to be included in your considerations, however secondarily.”

It was unnerving how well Bashir was learning to understand him. Still, Garak had regrettably tolerated his own existence significantly less well when the doctor was not part of it. He was becoming quite hopeless.

They returned to Bashir’s quarters, where to Garak’s great relief Dax stood looking out the window as opposed to their direction. He scrambled to put his clothes on quickly before she turned around.

“That was interesting to watch,” she said. “Too bad it would’ve been rude to watch you come back.”

“I appreciate your manners, Commander.” Mustn’t underestimate the science officer. She was capable of nearly anything, it seemed.

Dax turned and grinned. “This was for your benefit.”

“Garak may be onto something,” said Bashir.

“May?” repeated Garak indignantly.

“We can’t have any foolish optimism, now can we?”

It was a very well-chosen remark. Bashir wasn’t to be underestimated either, particularly in his growing conversational dexterity. All the same, Garak had an easy reply at hand. “Optimism and certainty are not the same.”

Dax laughed. “How can I help?”

He didn’t need any more help. Dax’s comment about Cattusian custom (and, of course, Bashir’s initial observation about Iloja’s word choice) had been all he required. At last, he found a very promising structure. “Are you aware,” he asked, “that Vulcan sects historically used poetry to communicate sensitive messages amongst themselves?”

“No,” said Dax.

“I am now,” said Bashir, more accurately than his Trill friend.

“There was a lot of unrest in Vulcan’s recent history when Iloja was there,” Dax added.

“And unrest requires additional secrecy for those who disagree with the prevailing government.” Garak gave these pre-Reformation Vulcans considerable credit for growing their ranks without attracting attention. What Vulcan would scrutinize amateur poetry? “The government at that time considered literature almost beneath notice, as I recall.”

“Making it a perfect vehicle for coded messages,” concluded Bashir.

“The code is determined by which characters in each line are to be taken as a part of the message. I believe I’ve found the code Iloja followed.”

Bashir peered over his shoulder. “You might translate it to Standard.”

He would go back later and double-check the translation against Iloja’s original Cardassi. For now, Standard would have to suffice. At least the Federation programs excelled at all internal languages.

“Cardassians,” said Bashir. “He couldn’t have just written this down in a straightforward manner.”

“And why should he? We’ve proven ourselves to be worthy of this information. Cleverness is as good a measure as strength, you know. It’s imprudent to go around handing out knowledge without any kind of test.”

“That makes the Federation imprudent,” said Dax. She did not sound offended, nor did she offer any defense. “I’ve been called worse.”

Garak deemed it wise not to mention that there was a cutting Cardassi insult which translated, more or less, as ‘ceaselessly imprudent.’

The computer finished cross-referencing, added in articles which the Vulcan language lacked, and produced the document for review. Garak read more eagerly than he’d ever consumed text in his life, which was no minor statement.

_Control of a private universe depends on complete synchronicity between the partners. They must tame it as a pet, forcing it to obey their will and permitting it to come only when desired. With practice, this is as simple as walking. Like walking, it involves failed attempts before success. Touch and breathing in unison are helpful in the early stages, but most importantly, the realm is managed by total accord._

“Looks like you were right about willpower playing a part,” said Bashir.

Garak had never doubted it. “Of course I was.”

Dax said, “We didn’t think about synchronicity.”

“We also didn’t think about permitting it,” pointed out the doctor, and Garak was once again relieved to know his _anbaras_ was able to note such distinctions. “It’s been brought to my attention more than once that Cardassians use language very precisely.”

“Quite,” said Garak.

“Willpower takes you so far, and permission gets you the rest of the way?” Dax shrugged. “That almost makes this dimension sound sentient.”

Garak didn’t like the idea at all, but he read on.

_It remains unknown why some share a universe, but since the bond is for life, it is a mystery best embraced. All difficulties are worthwhile, in the final analysis._

That was a highly subjective statement.

Dax, meanwhile, had her own quibble with Iloja’s words. “I was hoping for an explanation of the physics, or some statistics on how common this phenomenon is.”

Was poet-physicist a usual career path on Trill? It certainly wasn’t in the Cardassian Union.

“The rest looks like gibberish,” said Bashir.

“Yes, it appears he didn’t apply the code to all of the poems in that volume. A pity, but the starving don’t turn away scraps.”

Garak turned Iloja’s words around in his head, examining them from all angles as was his habit. Synchronicity. Harder to achieve with a human than another Cardassian, but then Dr. Bashir was not an average human, so the feat was possible in theory. He considered how they might use touch and breathing in pursuit of perfect accord.

This entire business was far more intimate than Garak would have preferred, but that vole had already bred, so he concentrated on the goal at hand.

“This gives us something to go on,” said Bashir. “It sounds like we have to be in agreement on a kind of mental wall to hold back the _malon anbar_ unless we want it.”

“Have you tried visualization?” asked Dax.

Bashir gave a very satisfied smirk. Garak sighed.

At this rate, he would soon be unable to recognize his own life – and not in the way he’d have preferred, the end of his exile. No, this was something else entirely, controlled neither by state nor Garak himself. He had the benefit of companionship, but then he loathed his need for it, and was most distressed by the bond tying him to Bashir even as it admitted to himself that some small part of his psyche was pleased to have a connection to anyone.

Well, he could sort that out later. For now, they had a _malon anbar_ upon which they needed to impress their not inconsiderable joint will.


	5. Ket Forunt Edre

“Garak,” said Bashir when he was supposed to be reading an essay on what it meant, from a Cardassian perspective, to apply one’s entire will to a goal, “We’re friends, we have sex, and we share our very own pocket of the multiverse. Don’t you think it’s odd that we still refer to each other by our surnames, or in your case, my title?”

“No.” The use of first names was more intimate among Cardassians than most outsiders realized, and Garak was quite simply not willing to accede to such a thing. “It’s never a good idea to be hasty.”

“Hasty,” echoed the doctor. “We’ve been having lunch for over three years.”

“A very small fraction of a lifetime, wouldn’t you say?”

Bashir huffed and went back to his reading.

Some minutes later he said, “Alright. We’re supposed to force the multiverse to bend to our will.”

“The concept of ket forunt edre means that you will allow nothing but death to stop you from reaching your goal.”

“I’m really hoping it doesn’t come to that. Death, I mean.”

“As am I,” said Garak.

They found themselves in the _malon anbar_ once more. Garak would’ve been most unhappy about that, except the place was so delightfully warm that he could only work up a moderate amount of displeasure.

“Though the whole idea seems rather extreme,” opined Bashir.

He’d been afraid of this. “Coming up with excuses for failure, Doctor?”

“Sometimes, no matter how hard you want to achieve a thing, and notwithstanding your best efforts, you still fail.”

“Do you?” he asked. “Or did some small part of your mind want, in fact, to be thwarted?”

The doctor fixed him with a very stern glare. “That’s ridiculous. The universe isn’t run by willpower alone.”

Ah. Perhaps there was a cultural misunderstanding at work here. “I’m not suggesting it is.”

“So what are you suggesting? That it’s better to die trying than live with failure?”

Garak had been living with failure for three and a half years now, and he still asked himself that very question. Most days he was glad to still be alive. Others he wondered if you could even call it living if he’d lost everything that gave meaning to his existence.

“I’m saying that ket forunt edre is not merely wanting a thing. How many goals are you willing to die for? Not many, I’d venture. That is what sets these situations apart.”

A strange expression crossed Bashir’s face for a moment, perhaps as he considered what aims he would die rather than see unaccomplished. “I see.”

“If it helps, you might consider how our lives may well depend upon forcing the _malon anbar_ to bow to our will.”

“And my patients’ lives.”

Garak allowed his disapproval to color his voice. “Very well, if theirs mean more to you than your own.”

“Consider it additional incentive.”

“I don’t need any more.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do,” said Bashir. “I’ve been giving some thought to the matter of synchronicity as it relates to breathing.”

“I don’t see how it’s terribly complicated.”

“Cultures all over the galaxy use breathing patterns in meditation and relaxation.” At the first sign of Garak’s protest, he rushed to add, “Yes, I know this isn’t meditation, but hear me out. Depending upon the species, patterns of breathing can have a wide variety of results, due to even minor physiological differences in how the respiratory and nervous systems interact.”

“I’ve never counted comparative biology as a hobby,” said Garak, which wasn’t strictly true. He had some interest in the topic as it related to self-defense and easily dispatching enemies of other species. The remark did, however, serve to forestall a medical dissertation.

“If you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to get you started.”

Garak had no doubt.

“We’ve tried breathing in tandem and it didn’t work,” continued the doctor.

“It hasn’t worked _yet_. We have only begun to practice.” Bashir had fine qualities to be sure, but patience was not among them.

“What if we’re focusing on the process instead of the results? We might need to breath differently to achieve the same effect.”

He considered the idea and concluded it had merit. “A possibility we can’t rule out.”

Bashir was pleased with himself. “It would help if I had more information about Cardassian biology.”

“Is this a ruse designed to add more information to Starfleet Medical’s database?” If so, it was a moderately respectable beginner’s effort. A touch lacking in finesse, perhaps, but not without potential.

“No, although if you’re offering…”

“I am not.”

“You know where my office is if you change your mind.”

“I’m sure I won’t.”

“Can I at least convince you to try my experiment? I’d like for us each to breath in a way we find conducive to relaxation.”

“Why relaxation?” asked Garak. It seemed a peculiar choice.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Firm resolve.”

“You have a manner of breathing for firm resolve?”

“You don’t?” That would explain why he’d never come across a mention of it in human literature, despite having read multiple scenes where such a habit would have been beneficial.

“I can’t speak for all humans, but I don’t, nor is it a common practice,” said Bashir.

And yet they had breathing exercises for relaxation, another indicator of questionable priorities. Garak could rest easily once he’d accomplished what needed to be done, therefore, firm resolve was far more important than relaxation. How very human to think otherwise.

“I suggest you apply your expert knowledge of human physiology to create one,” he said. “Just think, you could become famous for this valuable contribution to your culture.”

Bashir did not look like he was in any hurry do to such a thing. A pity.

“Sickbay to Dr. Bashir.” Nurse Jabara’s voice permeating the multiverse was unwelcome, as it meant a greater risk of discovery.

“Damn,” muttered the doctor. And then, just as they wished, they returned to Garak’s quarters.

“I do believe you’ve been holding out on your willpower,” he said, while Bashir pulled on his uniform at speed.

“We can talk about this later.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

The following evening Garak arrived at Bashir’s quarters ready once more to master the multiverse. “Now, Doctor, it is obvious that the _malon anbar_ responds to sufficient willpower, and you must call up the same determination as you exhibited last night.”

“Who says it was only me? You saw Jabara’s comm as a threat, so don’t try to tell me you didn’t want to return to the station more.”

“I have always seen the lack of control over our travels as a threat.”

“In the abstract,” insisted Bashir. “This was immediate, and I’m well aware that Cardassians experience adrenaline in ways similar to most humanoid species.”

Most of the time, Garak appreciated that the doctor didn’t allow himself to be swayed. It was, in fact, one of his charms that he never simply said what he thought Garak wanted to hear as a placating measure. In that moment, the man’s observation was unsettlingly prescient, and Garak didn’t enjoy hearing it in the least.

“I hope I wasn’t responsible for the Federation learning that,” he said.

“You weren’t. As a matter of fact, Starfleet Medical has gained some new knowledge about Cardassian physiology since the _Mayweather_ helped a Cardassian ship severely damaged by Klingons.”

“That was short-sighted of the gul who permitted it.”

“He was dying and his infirmary had been destroyed.”

It was difficult to argue with that if for no other reason than Garak had allowed Bashir to learn more about Cardassian physiology in order to save his own life. Not that the doctor had been willing to accept any other outcome.

Bashir sat on his couch and reached out a hand. “I’ll do my best approximation of forceful resolve breathing.”

Garak took his place next to the doctor and set his fingers lightly on the soft human skin. “That’s not an altogether encouraging statement.”

“It didn’t stop us last time,” said Bashir, and that was true.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you that I discovered a very interesting work of human literature which suggests at least some of your race understand that civilization is but a mask we wear when it is convenient. It’s called _Lord of the Flies_.”

“There’s a depressing book.”

“Reality doesn’t always reflect your optimism, I’m afraid.”

In the midst of this agreeable conversation, Garak noticed something peculiar. It seemed for a moment as though the space around his quarters moved and even sparked.

“Doctor,” he began.

“Yes, I see it.”

They moved to the _malon anbar_ as Bashir finished, “Iloja’s shimmering road.”

“Not nearly as metaphorical as widely believed.”

“It didn’t really shimmer.”

“It came close enough.” And in Cardassi, ‘shimmering’ rhymed with Iloja’s previous verse where ‘sparkling’ did not.

Bashir said, “Maybe that’s another difference in our perception. It warped for me.”

“In any event, we might take this as a sign of progress.”

“Careful, Garak. You almost sounded optimistic there. Keep this up, and I’ll be forced to conclude we hopeful people are starting to influence you.”

“Nothing so drastic, I assure you, though I’m sure the prospect would delight you.”

Bashir didn’t look delighted. “Have I ever given you the impression I wanted to change you?”

“The Federation habitually attempts to change the quadrant over to its own way of thinking.” Rather insidiously in some cases, Garak thought. They were very certain of their own moral elevation.

“We’re not talking about the entire Federation, we’re talking about me. I enjoy challenging you and debating with you, because a belief which can’t stand up to scrutiny isn’t worth holding, but I’ve never tried to remake you into some Federation image, and I hope you haven’t been trying the reverse.” Bashir crossed his arms to emphasize the point. Evidently he felt quite strongly about this.

“It would be foolish to attempt to turn a human into a Cardassian,” he said. That wasn’t enough of a denial to satisfy Bashir. Garak sighed. “My dear doctor, I enjoy your company as you are, and I assure you, my challenges to your own way of thinking are meant in the same spirit as yours. I may have endeavored, on one or two occasions, to broaden your perspective on certain matters, but never to change your fundamental nature.”

This was essentially true, with only very minor falsehood intertwined. He’d thought the man naïve and idealistic when they first met; still did, frequently, but not as much as before. And yes, he’d attempted to demonstrate that the universe did not always reward such traits, if only because he selfishly enjoyed Bashir’s company. Some amount of cynicism would do the doctor good and increase his odds of survival. Garak wanted to keep the man alive by encouraging a bit of realism, not remake his entirely personality.

The best defense was a strong offense – a concept shared between their cultures. “I seem to recall you pressing for truths recently which could be construed as wanting to change me,” he said.

“Only what I need considering our unique circumstances. You’ll notice I’ve never made demands for, say, the reason you’re here on the station.”

“You made some very unsubtle attempts to learn early in our acquaintance.”

“You invited them.”

He supposed that was reasonably accurate. All part of the game. “I would find our conversations dull if we were always in agreement.”

Bashir relaxed and gave him a small smile. “So would I.”

“Then may I safely presume we are in agreement that neither of us is embarking on a sustained campaign to remake the other?”

“I think you can.”

“Good. Now, let us force our return to the wider universe we normally inhabit.”

Despite their best efforts – or Garak’s best effort, and he would be very disappointed if Bashir hadn’t tried equally – they remained in the _malon anbar_.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” said the doctor.

“Whatever Rome is, I’m sure it never would have been built with such a lackadaisical attitude.”

“It’s a city on Earth, the center of a great empire millennia ago. Very influential in the course of human history. And I’m not lackadaisical just because I don’t expect instant perfection.”

“I didn’t say anything about perfection.” He was looking for progress, but it appeared that was not to be.

At least the _malon anbar_ was warm.

* * *

 

It took ten nights’ experimentation, and on Bashir’s part much sacrifice of leisure time, to find a method of leaving the _malon anbar_ when they wanted. They held their hands out, palms touching lightly, and fell into a complimentary breathing pattern while willing themselves back to the station.

Bashir was exceptionally pleased. Garak was more restrained because leaving the _malon anbar_ was good to be sure, but they still couldn’t control when they moved to it. The best they’d been able to do was delay the shift for a few seconds while they saw Iloja’s shimmering road. Or warping road, as Bashir saw it.

“We’re getting there,” said the doctor.

“Yes. Unpredictably and with very little warning. Getting to the _malon anbar_ has never been the problem.”

“I meant we’re making real strides towards controlling it.”

“With further strides yet to be taken.”

“Well, yes. I believe in celebrating progress.”

“I believe in celebrating complete accomplishment,” Garak said.

“Jadzia is working on a theory that certain combinations of pheromones can, in essence, unlock a door in the multiverse. Mind you, I’m not convinced about this, because human pheromones aren’t the same as their Cardassian counterparts, meaning if she’s right, we should be the first to have a _malon anbar_.”

Garak wasn’t terribly interested in Dax and Bashir’s evolving list of theories regarding the _malon anbar_ , unless and until such hypothesizing produced actionable steps to stop leaving their primary universe without explicitly desiring to do so.

“I think brain waves are a more likely root cause,” continued the doctor. “It agrees with the version of telekinetic powers which lie at the root of controlling the _malon anbar_.”

Telekinesis seemed an overly generous description to Garak’s mind, but then it was common among humans to dream of possessing abilities not known among their species. He suspected this was because in some ways, they were really quite weak.

“I’m babbling again, aren’t I?” asked the doctor. He had been curtailing this tendency of late, if incompletely, and had grown more adept at realizing his lapses into it.

“Not precisely. I’m sure some people would be very interested in your theories.” Garak happened not to be among them.

“You’re too relentlessly practical,” said the doctor, sounding more amused than slighted.

One of them had to be, and Bashir couldn’t be counted on for strict pragmatism. “Practicality is a virtue.”

“Society doesn’t get very far without some philosophers, artists, and dreamers.”

“It fares worse without focus on the more mundane requirements to ensure survival.” Those came first, and absolutely must be prioritized by some in order for the vibrancy of culture to follow. Garak never imagined himself to be anything other than what he was, a man fulfilling necessary tasks for his world so that others could thrive.

Bashir seemed to think he could be both a man of practicalities and dreams. It was very human, really. They had a phrase for it, ‘the best of both worlds,’ hopelessly idealistic as the concept was. A person couldn’t have the best of both worlds and the worst of neither. One accepted the unpleasantries which came with one’s role and moved forward. Any other way lay madness.

“I’m not arguing against basic needs,” said Bashir.

“I’m glad to hear it. We need to stop leaving our primary universe at random.”

“I know that. There’s nothing wrong with a little wonder at the same time.”

Garak wondered, certainly. He wondered how humanity had ever reached its preeminent position with these kinds of attitudes prevailing. He wondered what was becoming of him that he acquired an _anbaras_ and had, instead of killing Bashir to eliminate the threat, allowed two other Starfleet officers to know the secret. He wondered if, by some chance he could return to Cardassia, there would be anything left of the man he’d been before his exile, or if the Federation’s views were fatally infecting him despite all efforts.

And yet, there was nothing to be done about any of it now. As the old Cardassi saying went, only a fool fought the tide. Garak was many things in his life, but never a fool.

He hoped that wasn’t changing.

* * *

 

“Have you heard about Quark’s latest plan?” asked Bashir when Garak entered the doctor’s quarters.

“To write an instructional holonovel for Ferengi youth based on his time in Earth’s past? Yes, he’s currently trying to decide which course of business should lead to the most profit.”

“Not that one. He wants to bring back smoking.”

“Smoking what?”

“Cigarettes. A small stick filled with toxic chemicals that humans used to burn in order to inhale.”

“Why would your ancestors deliberately inhale toxins?” Garak didn’t always think highly of humans, conquest of the quadrant notwithstanding, but this was one of the stupider habits he’d heard attributed to them.

“Because they were physically addicted,” said the doctor.

“A problem which is neatly avoided by shunning addictive substances in the first place.”

“To be fair, there’s evidence the toxicity was kept secret from the general population by business interests.”

What kind of dreadfully inept state permitted such a thing, Garak couldn’t imagine. “Are you certain Quark didn’t influence your world more than he’s let on?”

“Reasonably. I did some quick research when I heard his idea. He wants to bring back smoking and remind people that medical technology can cure the resulting respiratory illnesses.”

He still didn’t understand why humans had taken up this habit. “Do these cigarettes offer some kind of mental stimulation?”

“Not like recreational drugs, no. Evidently they were used to suppress appetite and appear suave. I’m not sure what’s so suave about a cloud of smoke that could kill you.”

Garak couldn’t begin to fathom, either. “And he thinks people will actually buy these cigarettes?”

“He says humans did four hundred years ago and retro is in.”

“Then once they’re addicted, he plans to be the only supplier.” Anything so deadly would be restricted from replication under Bajoran and Federation oversight.

“Fortunately, those medical advances have also made it much easier to overcome the addiction, which I was happy to point out to him. Just because I can cure emphysema and cancer doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to fill your body with various substances. Even the best treatments aren’t a perfect substitute for keeping your respiratory system clean in the first place.”

Garak was fond of his lungs as they presently functioned. “I will have to revise my opinion of humans downward if many of you take up this habit.”

“So will I,” said the doctor, which Garak hadn’t expected at all. A delightful twist of conversation.

He saw the sparks indicating that whatever separated aspects of the multiverse was weakening. By now it was his habit to push back, attempting to turn his will into physical force (wouldn’t it be nice if the primary universe worked in similar ways?) and master this puzzle of metaphysics.

This time, it worked. The sparkling sheen faded, and they remained in Bashir’s quarters.

Bashir’s exclamation was predictably human. “We did it!”

“So it would appear.”

“Can we celebrate now?” asked the doctor.

“It might still be premature. We have to be certain we can always control the _malon anbar_.”

“Now you’re just being obstreperous for the sake of it.”

“I have no idea where you get such an impression.”

Garak was right, of course. They still returned to the _malon anbar_ in the middle of sexual activity, and this was probably because Bashir was too focused on pleasure at the expense of willpower. It took another twelve nights of practice before they could achieve consistent results.

“It’s not so bad, once you have say in the matter,” said Bashir as they sat in their realm. Rather like a holosuite, it had no definitive end Garak could find. There were no walls, just a constant twilight without bounds and, pleasingly, absolute security from any enemies.

“Its very existence is still a threat,” reminded Garak.

“How could I possibly forget, as often as you’ve said so?”

“Humans have a tendency to ignore that which does not suit you.”

“I’m not ignoring it, I swear. I’m simply appreciating the good. We have this fascinating universe, so why not take advantage of it and enjoy it now and again?”

As much as Garak loathed to admit it, Bashir made a valid point. It was not as though Garak enjoyed a great many aspects of his life at present, and the _malon anbar_ could in theory provide a useful advantage in certain highly limited situations. It was also, in the midst of all the Federation races and Bajorans, something wonderfully Cardassian.

Secrets became part of one’s identity. On the whole, this was not the worst thing Garak could have added to his self in exile. Well, Tain probably would’ve disagreed, but he’d been reduced to atoms, so he lost the privilege of having an opinion.

“Garak?”

He’d been contemplating in silence too long. “I’m in the middle of a complex risk analysis,” he told Bashir.

In the end, he concluded that there was little to lose by enjoying the _malon anbar_ that hadn’t already been taken from him. And perhaps it was even a small victory. After all, two years earlier the doctor had very unhappily reported that Tain wanted Garak to live and suffer, and Garak was not altogether convinced that their reconciliation erased that desire. Tain was nothing if not practical enough to sublimate his own wants for the good of the state.

“What’s the verdict?” asked Bashir when Garak looked at him once more.

“If you’re willing, and let it be very clear that I have warned you of all possible threats…”

“That’s an important part of Cardassian interaction, isn’t it?”

“You’ve been paying attention,” he said. The doctor was very good at learning from literature. “I would not be averse to visiting, and we must continue to sharpen our skills at controlling the multiverse in any case.”

Bashir grinned and stretched out, looking very content. “I’ll tell Captain Sisko we’re not popping in and out of the universe anymore. This means we can go back to meeting in public, too. My lunches have been very boring lately.”

As had Garak’s. Probably more so, considering how few people aboard the station were willing to engage him in a good argument. “The general consensus seems to be we’ve despaired of convincing each other of the superiority of our respective literature, or so I’ve heard.”

“As though that has ever been the point,” said Bashir.

Garak smiled. The man was right, of course, but it wouldn’t do to let the conversation go stale. “I don’t know about that, Doctor. I’m still endeavoring to win you over to the intellectual satisfaction of enigma tales.”

“I suspect the odds of that are about as likely as you finding a taste for Shakespeare.”

“Which will never happen, I assure you.”

“My point exactly,” said Bashir.

Garak would be glad to get back to their literary debates. Cardassians thrived on conversation, he more than most, and for all the doctor’s very human views, he had a Cardassian appreciate for the value of a good debate. Learning that this was the highest form of flirtation on Cardassia had only inspired Bashir to sharpen his skills. He really was delightful company.

Garak would be on his guard for further erosions of his identity, but for the present, he had a pleasant universe shared with a more than agreeable _anbaras_. The possible threats were no greater than Garak was used to, and would even keep him sharp. Notwithstanding his misgivings over growing attached to anyone, there were worse secrets indeed to incorporate into one’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've done it again. Instead of this "interesting little idea" being over, the muse has decided to turn it into a four-or-five part series. So there's a coda to this story, and then I have to dive into Part II... which in theory won't be as long as this, but I'll believe that when I upload it.


	6. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't strictly required for the story, but I wanted to take a peek at how Sisko feels about this new development in his CMO's life.

Ben sighed and steepled his hands in the wake of Dr. Bashir’s hasty retreat. It was good that the doctor and Garak had their private universe under control now, but Ben had a sinking feeling this could still go horribly wrong.

“And I thought it was bad when he chased women,” he said. “Little did I know him finding a boyfriend would be even worse.”

“I don’t think Garak is his boyfriend,” said Jadzia, who’d remained calm as usual about this whole situation. Oh, she was annoyed that she couldn’t explain it, but she wasn’t worked up about the disastrous implications it could have on politics. As science officer, she didn’t have to worry about politics, but Dax had been a diplomat. She knew full well how much trouble this could cause, and simply didn’t concern herself over it.

Ben wished he had that luxury.

“What would you call him?” he asked.

“I think the Cardassian term is _anbaras_. Or is that the plural? Julian gave me a lot of Cardassi words at once.”

“And that means?”

“The person he shares a universe with.”

“That’s remarkably unhelpful,” said Ben.

Jadzia lifted her shoulders in the slightest hint of a shrug. “Humans can get so caught up in labels.”

Maybe it was just as well he had plausible deniability to fall back on if anyone ever asked exactly how his CMO was involved with a former (Odo, at least, was confident in using ‘former’ and Ben hoped he was right) Obsidian Order agent. Ben wasn’t blind, so he had a pretty good idea anyway.

“Why couldn’t he have seen what a bad choice this was? He picked the absolute worst person on the station to get involved with.”

It was a rhetorical question, of course. He was just venting, because Starfleet Command and the Bajoran government would _not_ like this, if they ever had reason to find out. He wasn’t particularly thrilled with Garak’s clear point that unscrupulous people (the Obsidian Order? All this cloak and dagger business gave Ben a headache) might be willing to hurt Bashir to learn the secrets of this new ability, either.

Most people would’ve let the comment of a frustrated captain slide. Jadzia Dax wasn’t most people. “Oh, I don’t know. I seem to remember you chasing the worst woman on Pelios station to get involved with.”

“As a _cadet_ ,” stressed Ben. Bashir was a lieutenant, a CMO, and ten years older than Ben at the time of his own unwise amorous pursuit. “And nothing ever happened with her, anyway.”

“Not for lack of trying on your part.”

That was unfortunately true.

“It’s done, Benjamin. There’s nothing you can do to change it, so why waste your energy second-guessing Julian’s decisions?”

“You may have a point,” he admitted. Jadzia was good at offering perspective. Too good, sometimes.

“I know I do,” she said. “Now, I was promised Cajun-Bajoran fusion for dinner, and I’m not letting you out of it barring a crisis.”

“Then I’d better get cooking.” It suited him, anyway. Cooking was very soothing, and God knew this command gave him enough reasons to need relaxation. He was going to get in his kitchen and find that peaceful state of mind that food preparation brought him to.

And he wasn’t going to think about Julian Bashir’s Cardassian universe again until he absolutely had to.


End file.
